Dying Wish
by George Stark II
Summary: House/Wilson slash. My take on the ending. What I think could/should/would happen after the finale. Spoilers. The first chapter is just necessary fun, but there will also be an actual serious story line that, if you've read and liked any of my other stories, you will hopefully like. Starts about 1 month after the finale.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** SPOILERS. Spoilers for the season finale and a few episodes before it. Even if you weren't into the last season, at least make sure you've watched, at the very last, the last 5 minutes of 8.18 "Body and Soul," the House and Wilson parts of every episode after that, and all of 8.22 "Everybody Dies." Please. Most of them should be on Hulu or Fox by now, and even if they're not, I'm sure you can find them illegally (not that I condone illegal watching of shows). Oh yeah and this is rated M, which means there's going to be sex. Slashy sex.

**Disclaimer** I don't own House or Wilson or any other characters I may mention whom you've heard of before.

**A/N: **Yes, I'm out of retirement. But only for this one story, my take on the ending. Then I'm going back into retirement (for House at least) forever.

**Dying Wish**

Dedicated to JKZ. I'm sorry you never got to see the end. You would have thought it was ridiculous. We would have had some great discussions about it. Miss you and love you every day.

**Chapter 1**

House changed the channel from a Bud Lite commercial to an '80s movie before settling on something with a busty blonde in a bikini. He glanced at Wilson, who was lying on the bed next to him, just in time to see his best friend's lips twitch into a slight smile. There was still stubble on his face; for the last month he'd adopted House's style of grooming. As well as House's style of drinking and his sense of where the line was between 'dangerous' and 'fun.' This was their second night in this particular motel, which had the advantage of a decent pizza place that delivered free, but the disadvantage of the fact that you could only see the TV well from one of the two beds, meaning they had to sit next to each other, their shoulders brushing against the padded headboard.

"So what's on the bucket list this week?" House asked, staring at the blonde's ass as she bent over to spread out a beach towel. He felt Wilson shrug beside him, then turned to look at his friend. "Four months, Wilson. And your options for fun will be limited the sicker you get."

"What do you want to do?" Wilson asked.

House shook his head. "I'm not the one dying." _Yet_, he thought, but kept that part to himself.

"Well, what do you want to do while I'm still here?"

"No," House objected. "How many times now have we argued because you said I'm making your death sentence about me? If we get into another fight, now I don't have anyone else to complain about you to. Until you kick off, I'm stuck with you. Let's make it as bearable as possible for both of us."

Wilson was smiling again. "Well," he said slowly, eyes focused on the television screen, "there is...one thing I've never done that I...I've thought about trying. Not often, but...every once-in-a-while it'll cross my mind that maybe...once...I should give it a shot before I die."

"Okay," House said, nodding and watching Wilson, who still hadn't looked at him. "What? Do we need to go somewhere?"

Wilson shook his head, and House noticed a blush begin creeping up his neck. "I mean, I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't, I probably wouldn't even like it. And I won't ask it of you. Sorry. Forget I brought it up, it was stupid."

"Come on, Wilson," House rolled his eyes. "What do you think I wouldn't be up for?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "No, I'm the one chickening out." He shifted on the bed, still looking at the TV, though House knew he wasn't really watching.

"But now you've piqued my curiosity," House said. "And you know it."

"Well, then there's an advantage to my having four months to live: I only have to keep it from you that long, and then the truth dies with me."

"If you don't tell me, I'm gonna start guessing," House threatened. "It'll be less embarrassing for you if you just tell me."

"But it's irrelevant," Wilson said. "I told you, I changed my mind. I've thought about it a few times, but it not something I actually _want_. I only even brought it up because I was trying to think of something I haven't done."

"So do it anyway. You don't like it, so what? Not like you ever need to do it again."

Wilson didn't respond. His neck was still a little flushed, and his cheeks were, too. He hadn't looked anywhere but the television screen since the start of the conversation, and his eyes were fixed on the spot. After another moment of watching Wilson watch TV, House decided to try another tactic—ignoring him. He too focused on the television, changing the channel every time it got boring.

The two had been watching TV in silence for about five minutes when a condom commercial came on and Wilson suddenly blurted out, "Anal." He turned toward House, face red, and House turned to him. "That's what I think I might want to try. Having anal sex."

House looked him over for a second before responding. "You mean after three marriages and more girlfriends than I've had patients–"

"–that's not true," Wilson cut in.

"–None of them have let you do anal?" House's voice held disbelief. Wilson's face just became redder.

"No, not _that_," he murmured. "I've done _that_. I mean...the other way around." He was staring at his lap now. House allowed himself a smirk.

"I know that's what you meant," he said. "I just like watching you squirm."

Wilson laughed, breaking the tension, and hit House lightly on the arm. "You ass," he said fondly. He picked up the remote and turned the volume up as though that would end the conversation.

"And the real thing," House stated. "Not just with toys."

Wilson's blush was starting to creep up on him again. "When I've thought about trying it," he mumbled, "I've thought about the real thing."

"And..." This time House was the one to hesitate. "Me?"

Wilson shrugged, a display of indifference that House saw right through. "I trust you."

Not taking his eyes off his best friend, House picked up the remote control and turned the TV off, forcing Wilson to turn to him once more. "You want to do this?" he asked, all mirth gone from his voice.

"No," Wilson said quickly. "No. I mean, I've thought about it, but...I just...and I'm not going to ask you to..."

"You never said anything before," House said. "Why bring it up now?"

Wilson sighed. "Ever since the diagnosis, we've been more...candid...with each other than we've ever been. You've said things to me, admitted things to me that I never thought I'd hear come out of your mouth. And it's been refreshing, really. It'd be weird if you were like that all the time. Baring your soul, heart-to-hearts aren't who you are, but circumstances being what they are, it's a nice change. You being honest, open when you talk to me. For just a second I thought maybe I could do it back...before I realized that this might be pushing things too far."

"So it is something you want."

Wilson didn't answer.

"Wilson," House said. "You're dying. If you want to have gay sex before you die, now's your chance."

"You're..." Wilson murmured, then swallowed. "You're willing to do this?"

"You've done anal with women, you know what it feels like," House said. "Why should that be any different because it's you?"

"Because it's me."

They silently assessed each other for another moment.

"Wilson," House finally said. "Someone offers to grant your dying wish, you take them up on it."

Wilson smiled. "I never said it was my dying wish."

"Close enough. You in or not?"

Wilson hesitated. "What if we don't like it?"

House rolled his eyes. "We get over it. We're stuck with each other 'til you die, that doesn't leave much room for awkward feelings. If it sucks, I just blame you and conclude that's why all your marriages failed, then we go to the next thing."

Wilson nodded, his thinking face on. "All right. If you're sure you're in, then we can give it a shot."

House picked up the TV remote again and put it on the bedside table, and leaned closer to Wilson. He didn't kiss him, but got into his personal space and looked into his eyes.

Wilson swallowed. "Now?"

"You chickening out?"

"No." The syllable didn't sound as confident as Wilson probably meant it to, but it was enough for House. He leaned inches closer, but let Wilson close the distance between them.

The first minute was a little awkward. Only a little. But they got used to each other quickly and the awkwardness was forgotten as the kiss deepened and became more intense. House had a hand on the back of Wilson's neck and another at his collar, fully prepared to start unbuttoning his shirt at any moment. He felt Wilson's fingernails rake through his hair—not scratching, though—accompanied by the lightest of touches on his cheek.

Although it was hot and heavy and sent House's heart pumping and blood racing everywhere, it was as much sensual as it was sexual. It was warm. More like kissing Cuddy or Stacy than kissing a hooker. Because it was Wilson. And he loved Wilson.

Wilson leaned his body closer to House, bringing a leg around to straddle him. He groaned every now and again and soon began unbuttoning his shirt. House took that as his cue to do the same. He shifted his body even closer while his sweaty fingers fumbled with Wilson's buttons. Once he'd finished with House's shirt, Wilson pulled away from the kiss, pecked House again quickly, and moved his mouth to House's neck and collarbone, wetting the skin with his lips and tongue. This left his arms free, so House extracted them one at a time from his shirt—they kept as much contact as possible between each other's hands and arms during the shirt-taking-off-process. When both were shirtless, they had an unspoken competition over which man could get the most skin beneath his fingers.

As the foreplay went on, House felt himself becoming more and more anxious to take things further. Wilson's legs were entwined with his and he could feel how ready his best friend was to move things along as well.

"Ready?" House murmured into Wilson's ear.

"Mmm-hmm," Wilson answered. His lips were near House's ear, which he kissed and nibbled. Their hands met and grasped around where their pelvises were nearly touching, and slowly went to first Wilson's buttons and zipper. Wilson shimmied off House's lap and peeled his jeans the rest of the way off. Then he got to his knees, straddling House again, and kissing him as they worked to get his pants off. Wilson's fingers brushed against House's bulge, sending a chill up his spine. House kissed Wilson harder, putting his hands on his waist and slipping fingers under the elastic of Wilson's boxers. Wilson laid House down on the bed, not breaking contact between their mouths, and House had his right hand completely underneath Wilson's boxers, playing with him, while his left hand slipped up his back and through his hair.

"House," Wilson moaned, sounding breathless.

"Hurry up," House grunted, and Wilson got his pants down past his knees, where House kicked them the rest of the way off. He rolled them over so Wilson was the one on his back, and took both their boxers off.

"House, stop a sec," Wilson panted, pulling away slightly. "We need to take a quick break."

House nodded. Slowing things down was a good idea. Wilson rolled off House and they both turned on their sides, looking at each other. It was quiet except for their mismatched heavy breathing. House still had a hand in Wilson's hair.

"Not chickening out again, are you?" House asked.

Wilson smiled. "Not stopping, that would have been chickening out." He ran his hand up House's arm, past his shoulder and to his cheek, which he cupped for a second before kissing him again. They kissed for another minute, hands roaming but not too forcefully, until House pulled away.

"Let's move on," he said. "It's gonna take some time to get you ready."

"Right," Wilson nodded, looking nervous again.

"You have lube or anything?"

"I think there's some lotion in the bathroom."

"Go get it. You'll need it."

Wilson got off the bed and House watched his naked ass as he went into the bathroom. Only because they'd taken a break to keep things from progressing too quickly, he gave himself permission to touch himself while he watched. Wilson was back a second later with the tiny bottle of lotion, which he handed to House, climbing back onto the bed beside him. Without looking at House, Wilson lay down on his side. He brought his knees to his chest in a semi-fetal position.

"There a reason this is so impersonal all of a sudden?" House asked.

Wilson turned to look at him over his shoulder. "You're gonna tell me this isn't weird for you?"

"It's part of it, Wilson. You don't need to treat it like a prostate exam.

Wilson didn't say anything. He turned back around.

"If you go into this thinking you're not gonna enjoy it, you probably won't," House warned. He let a hand hover over Wilson's shoulder blade, just close enough to touch the invisible fine hairs covering it and bring goosebumps to the flesh. "Relax, Wilson," he said, letting his hand make full contact with his friend's skin and rubbing down his back. "You think being tense is going to help or hurt at this point?"

"You can't blame me for being a little nervous," Wilson muttered.

"Well, get over it," House said simply. He let his hand roam over Wilson's side and to his stomach, slowly lowering it further and bringing his lips to Wilson's neck at the same time. He let Wilson's arousal increase again before surreptitiously opening the lotion with his free hand and getting to work.

It took some time, as Wilson had never done this before, but they kept each other occupied. This was still so new with each other and there was so much to touch. And if it wouldn't be happening again, there was that much more urgency to making full use of every moment while they were still in it.

Finally, House withdrew his hand. He considered saying something, letting Wilson know he was going to move on now, but the talking thus far had taken them out of the moment and made the awkwardness return. Now House was ready, he wanted this. He was holding Wilson, touching him, kissing his neck or back every now and again, and if this was going to be a one-time thing, he wanted to enjoy every second of it. So instead of announcing to Wilson what he was going to do, he simply kissed his neck and slowly guided himself in.

"House," Wilson murmured. His fingers were grasping at air, looking for something to hold on to, and House gave him his hand. Wilson's grip was tight, but House just squeezed back encouragingly and, after a second, entered the rest of the way. Wilson's grip slowly lessened, though House didn't let go. He slipped his free hand beneath Wilson to have access to his man parts from the other side, and resumed touching him. They were still spooning, House's chest now pressed to Wilson's back, and they lay like that for a moment, resting and preparing, before House squeezed Wilson and began to thrust. Wilson grunted a few times at the new sensation, but that wasn't what House was aiming for. He'd found it earlier, he could find it again…

"Oh!" Wilson shouted, and the intense tone of his voice told House he'd found what he was looking for. So he found it again. And again.

"House, good god," Wilson said. "You…you really know what you're doing back there."

House didn't answer. He was breathing fast, trying very hard not to let any sound escape his mouth. Being inside Wilson…well, it shouldn't really have felt any different from the times he'd done anal before, but it did. It was _Wilson_. This was his best friend, the man he'd given up everything for. Faking his death might have kept him out of jail, but it also cost him everything: his job, his home, money, colleagues, even his mother. He wouldn't have been in jail forever, everything would have been waiting for him when he got out. Everything but Wilson. And he was the only thing that really mattered.

"Wilson," House whispered. He didn't mean to; he'd been trying to keep quiet.

"House," Wilson murmured in return. He squeezed House's hand again—they hadn't let go since House entered him—and used his other hand to reach behind him and touch House's face. He couldn't see what he was doing, so he missed and ended up brushing House's neck, but House knew what he was going for and moved his head down to help him. He rested his forehead against Wilson's neck, found a shoulder blade and kissed it, and increased his speed. He was stroking Wilson at the same rate he was thrusting in him, and actually enjoying both activities about equally. He'd never imagined he'd be able to touch Wilson like this. He wanted every bit of it. He felt the flesh beneath his hand, the flesh pressing against him and rubbing against him where he was most sensitive.

"Wilson," he breathed against his back. He couldn't help it. He was getting higher with each breath, getting closer with each heartbeat. He heard Wilson murmuring and moaning with each stroke, each push, and the sound of his best friend as aroused as he was only made him want him more. Wilson's fingernails dug into his knuckles and his cries got louder and his body began to shudder. He was there, House could feel it. His body was pulsing all around House and House just went at him faster and faster. If Wilson was reaching his climax, he wanted to make it as intense for him as possible—not to mention that he was getting there himself and his instincts were taking over.

With a loud cry that sounded vaguely like house's name, Wilson came. House was holding onto Wilson's tip at the time and he felt it as well as saw it. And then he let himself go. He felt his body take control, let himself cry out, squeezed Wilson to him and felt every nerve in his body sing with joy. His arms enveloped Wilson as the final shudders took over them. He felt utterly spent but never so satisfied. After a moment, Wilson slipped off House and rolled over in his arms, yawned and "hmm"ed. He rested his head on House's shoulder. He must be worn out, too. House decided that they didn't need to get up. He reached for the motel comforter, pulled it over their entwined nude bodies, and fell asleep


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**Thank you to everyone who reviewed and subscribed. So as I've been writing this I've been wanting to watch the last few episodes again, partly as a refresher, partly just to witness the intimate moments House and Wilson have had. But since I didn't have a DVR and it wasn't online for free anymore, I didn't think I'd be able to. This past week, however, I've actually been house-sitting (no pun intended) for the husband of the woman I dedicated the story to, and today I found all the last episodes of House still on her DVR. Guess how I spent my afternoon ;-) It just goes to show that even after you lose someone, they find little ways to pop back into your life. Just like in the House finale, all three original members of House's team were remembering him in little ways. I think we could all use a reminder that the people we care about are never really gone as long as we continue to remember them.

**Chapter 2**

Wilson was awake when House woke up, but he hadn't moved. Sunlight shone through the sheer drapes covering the window, lighting up the room. Wilson was propped up on his elbow, his other arm around House's waist, and leaning against him.

"Were you watching me sleep?" House asked, also propping himself up.

Wilson laughed. "I've only been up for a minute." His fingers rubbed House's side. "You stayed."

"Where would I go?"

"The other bed?" Wilson suggested. He shrugged. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"So did you," House pointed out, sitting up the rest of the way, taller than Wilson now.

Wilson nodded. He looked away, as though maybe embarrassed or unsure. Then he whispered, almost to himself, "I did." House leaned down and kissed him again, gently, without tongue. He pulled back and they looked at each other. Wilson was smiling now. "You think we should do it again?"

"I think that if I were the one dying, I'd want to fit in as many orgasms as possible before that happened."

House had meant for the comment to be light, but instead the words hung in the air, reminding them both of Wilson's death sentence. The smile gracing Wilson's lips faded. He leaned closer to House, buried his head in his neck, and wrapped his arms around him. House held him back.

Wilson was dying. His best friend, the person he loved most on this earth, had maybe four months to live. By the time snow began to fall, he would be gone forever and House would never see him or speak to him again.

House had known this to be true for weeks. He'd known it since he'd sat in the control room and seen an image of Wilson's cancer appear on a computer monitor. He'd known then that Wilson would die in five months and, because Wilson was stubborn, that there was nothing that could change that. The truth kept popping up. He and Wilson would be in the middle of something fun—racing motorcycles, watching a wrestling match, doing tequila shots—and he'd look at him and remember that Wilson was dying. It was his first thought when he woke up in the morning and his last before he fell asleep. Wilson was dying and he knew it, had known it for weeks.

He hadn't cried. Wilson had, at least once that House had seen, in the car, but House hadn't cried. He almost did, now. He didn't want to call it crying because he was supposed to be tougher than that, but there were tears sliding down his cheeks and he couldn't stop them. House cursed himself for ever making that stupid comment, that had been what started it. His head was against Wilson's, and he could feel the soft strands of Wilson's hair beneath his wet cheeks. He gritted his teeth so he wouldn't make any noise. He didn't want Wilson to know. He didn't want Wilson to see him cry…for him. For what they would never have.

Why did they wait so long to make love? Wait until it was too late? They could have had years together. They could have been happy. If only one of them had said something sooner. Why had they always remained just friends? They knew they both wanted more, even if neither man was willing to admit it. There were so many opportunities, so many lost opportunities. So much they could have had together and now…now the little they did have would soon be torn away from him. How many more times would he be able to hold Wilson like this? House squeezed him tighter. It would never be enough.

He felt wetness against his neck; was Wilson crying, too? No, he was kissing him. Soft, gentle wet kisses on his neck. Then Wilson pulled back, removing his head from beneath House's, and looked at him.

"You okay?" Wilson whispered, seeing House's red face.

"Fine," House grunted, looking away. "Got something in my eye."

"It's called a tear," Wilson said, reaching over to catch one on the tip of his finger. He stuck it in his mouth, and then leaned forward and kissed House's eyes, first one, then the other. It struck House just how intimate things had become so quickly.

"It's going to be okay," Wilson whispered, his breath hitting the bridge of House's nose as he spoke.

"How can you say that?" House mumbled back. "You have no right to say that."

"House, I'm the one who's dying," Wilson almost laughed, pulling away just far enough to look at House properly.

"Exactly," House said. "You'll be dead, you'll be gone, you won't be here anymore, you won't have to deal with you not being here."

Wilson kissed House. "You're doing it again," he said.

"I don't care," House responded. "I know it sucks for you, but it sucks for me, too. When you're gone, I have nothing left to live for, nothing. What am I supposed to do, then? I'm allowed to be upset about it."

"Of course you're allowed to be upset about it," Wilson said. He hugged House, and House returned the hug.

"I let you make your decision," House said. "I get it, okay? I'm done trying to convince you otherwise. It's too late for that now, anyway."

Wilson nodded. House felt it more than saw it—they were still holding each other.

"House," Wilson said softly, pulling back so he could make eye contact with House. "You can't go back to your house or job, you can't even buy a new house or a car or anything; you're legally dead. What are you going to do?"

House didn't answer right away. It was something he tried not to think about. He thought he knew the answer, but he couldn't be sure. He would make the decision when it needed to be made, not before. "I don't know," he said finally, not catching Wilson's eye. "Let's get through the next few months first, worry about you first, then I'll deal with me."

"What you said…about having nothing to live for…"

"Don't worry about me, Wilson," House said firmly. "You were the one who said I had to learn how to deal with things without you."

"But the way I think you might 'deal with things' concerns me."

"Then stop thinking about it," House instructed. He gave Wilson a seductive look and trailed a hand up his side. "So, are we gonna get laid this morning or what?"

Fortunately, Wilson let him change the subject, and better yet, kissed him. After they had sex, showered, and changed, the motel had already finished serving breakfast, so they found a cheap diner that had the "World's Best French Toast," and stopped in to eat.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" House asked, crunching on a bit of burnt bacon. "Are we gonna stick around Cleveland another day or hit the road?"

Since House had faked his death and run off with Wilson, the two had spent the last month gradually heading west, stopping in major cities for a day or a few to visit attractions and sporting events, get drunk and stay in cheap motels. They'd arrived in Cleveland two nights ago, and spent yesterday at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, one of the highlights of the trip so far. They didn't plan ahead; they just went where Wilson's whim took them.

"I don't think there's much else to do in Cleveland," Wilson said. "But Indianapolis has the Motor Speedway Hall of Fame—and a bunch of breweries. If we leave after breakfast, we can be there by this afternoon."

"Sounds good," House agreed.

There was an added advantage to their sleeping together—when they had to get a motel that night, they were able to save money by getting a room with one bed instead of a double. It didn't seem like anything changed between them, and they didn't talk about the fact that things were different. It felt like they had always been this way. Being able to casually touch or kiss Wilson just felt so natural, like House had been doing it all his life. He thought he should have been doing it all his life. It wasn't that they were suddenly superaffectionate or anything, but it was nice to have that option. And flirting was something they'd always done, but now it could be even more frequent and open—not to mention that now they would actually follow through. But their new relationship had a serious side, too, the same one that had developed in their friendship since Wilson's cancer diagnosis. House had never been open with his feelings with anyone—even with Stacy and Cuddy he'd usually kept those kinds of things to himself. But Wilson's dying put everything in a new light and encouraged him to abandon any pretense. In some ways it made him very uncomfortable, but in others it was a relief. He didn't have to hide anymore, and he had an excuse not to. Even before he and Wilson slept together, even before they'd run away together, everyone who knew them had known that Wilson's dying meant only one thing: that he and House needed to spend every possible moment together. It was never a question.

The only question that remained was what would happen to House after Wilson's cancer finally destroyed his body.

House had never really been suicidal. He'd considered the option, quite often actually, but never had he actually wanted to willingly end his life. He was willing to risk his life, especially to try and help those he loved or avoid excruciating pain, but never actually ensure that he would die. Now, for the first time, with hallucination-Cameron's words echoing in his head, he was thinking that dying might be the best thing to do.

Number one, he didn't want to live in a world without Wilson. Being apart from him was one thing—even when they'd been separated, he'd still known that Wilson was alive and well, and always had hope that they would be together again someday, which they always did. But the thought of Wilson not existing…that was unbearable. The thought of House living and breathing while Wilson rotted in the ground…it wasn't fair, it was wrong, and House highly doubted he'd be able to stand it.

But even if he could…even if he was able to grieve and mourn healthily and move on with his life…he didn't have a life to move on with. Everyone thought he was dead. If anyone found out he was still alive, he'd go to jail, probably for more than six months this time. Would anyone be able to forgive him for leading them to believe he was dead? Everyone had been disgusted with him even the times when he'd led them to believe he was dying, no matter how unintentionally. House couldn't imagine anyone, possibly not even his own mother, staying by his side to support him if he went back. And if he didn't return to the people he knew, what would he do? Even if he somehow managed to get ahold of his money—which he'd left to Wilson—he needed ID to buy a car or rent an apartment or get a job. He had none of that. All records would show him as dead. He literally needed Wilson to survive. He might find a way to get along for a little while, but eventually his money would run out and he'd need to get a job and a permanent residence. How could he do that with no identification? And with his state of mind being what it likely would be after Wilson's death, would he even be able to function enough to keep hidden from the law?

House lay in bed, at a cheap inn in Greenwood, Indiana, pondering all this. Wilson was asleep beside him, and House was trying to sleep, but couldn't. All these thoughts kept swirling around in his head, even more so than they usually did. After talking about it with Wilson that morning, House couldn't get his own fate out of his mind. What would become of him when Wilson died?

"House," Wilson murmured, and House looked over at him, surprised.

"I thought you were asleep."

Wilson shook his head. "I couldn't sleep. I was up thinking."

"About what?"

"You."

"What about me?" House asked. "About…" He hesitated, then gestured at the two of them together in bed, "…this?"

"A little," Wilson said. "But mostly about what we were talking about this morning. About what you're gonna do…after…"

"And I told you," House said, his voice becoming cooler without his meaning it to. "I'll worry about that when it happens. You won't be around for it to be your problem. It's mine." He rolled over in bed, facing away from his best friend. "Go to sleep, Wilson."

Wilson scooted closer and put his arms around House from behind. "But while I am around, I do worry about it, and it is my problem." He kissed the back of House's neck and then rested his forehead against it. "What you said…about not having anything to live for after I'm gone…it bothers me that you think that."

"But it's true," House pointed out. He rolled over in Wilson's arms to look at him again. "I literally won't. Everyone thinks I'm dead. Forget friends and family, I don't even have acquaintances or colleagues anymore. And no way to form new ones. I'm living under the radar, Wilson. I need a birth certificate and a social security number to get a job or a house, and I don't know anyone who can fake those things. Not anymore, anyway," he added.

"People steal people's identities all the time," Wilson said. "I have all my papers and the government has no proof that I'm dying. When I die, you could use my identity. You already know everything about me. You go somewhere no one knows who I am. You might even be able to get a job as a doctor somewhere."

"Do I look like a James Wilson to you?"

Wilson just smiled, and House indulged him for a moment before sighing and shaking his head.

"Seriously, Wilson, even if that could work…I don't know if I'd want it to. Me starting a life in a place I don't know where I don't know anyone or have anything…maybe it gives me a way to live, but it doesn't really give me anything to live for. Just forget it, Wilson," he said as Wilson opened his mouth again. "I'll figure things out. Constantly worrying about me is just going to make you sicker faster, and I want you for as long as I can have you, for both our sakes."

Finally, Wilson sighed and nodded and closed his eyes. House rolled over again and did the same. He took Wilson's hands in his, squeezed, and kissed his fingers. Then he tried, once again, to go to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"House, wake up," Wilson said. A hand on his shoulder was shaking him. House opened his eyes to see Wilson already up and dressed. He'd even shaved today.

"What?" House said.

"Get up. I want to get on the road as soon as possible."

"What's the hurry?" House yawned, stretching.

"We're going to San Francisco."

House took a moment to stare at Wilson. He looked excited, energized. And very much like a man who had come to a decision he was pleased with. "San Francisco?" House repeated.

"San Francisco," Wilson confirmed. "Though we might end up staying more near Oakland or Berkeley, across, the bay, but we'll figure that part out when we get there. Now come on, get up."

"What the hell is in San Francisco?" House asked.

"Warm weather, for one."

"It's the middle of summer, Wilson. It's warm everywhere. Except maybe Alaska. And I don't think you'll be here for winter."

"House, just trust me." Wilson was still smiling, and his voice held the excitement he was radiating. "Get up, get dressed, it'll take us at least two days to get there, probably three."

"What happened to our plan?" House asked, grabbing his cane and heaving himself out of bed. "It's taken us a month to get 700 miles, now you want to go another 2,000 in two days? I thought you'd at least want to stop in Vegas."

"I do, and we'll go to Vegas later. But we need to go to California first. Now hurry up. It's almost 9 o'clock, I want to get on the road. I want to at least make it to Nebraska tonight."

Since he figured it was the only way to get Wilson to tell him what was going on, House quickly dressed and got his stuff into the car.

"So now are you going to tell me why we suddenly need to get to San Francisco?" House asked once they'd checked out and got onto the interstate.

"No," Wilson said simply.

"You're just gonna keep me in the dark?"

"You'll find out after we get there," Wilson promised.

"Wilson, you've gotta give me something."

"House, just trust me," Wilson said, turning to look at him. He was still wearing the smile he'd had on since he'd woken House up. "My...dying wish is for us to go to California."

"I thought your dying wish was to bone me," House commented, causing Wilson to snigger.

"But now that that wish has come true," he said, "I have another dying wish. And this..." His voice became passionate. "This is really important to me, House. I want—no, _need_ your support."

"I can't support you if I don't know what I'm supporting."

"Right now, all you need to support is my needing to go to California. So if I fall asleep when it's your turn to drive...don't take us to Mexico or anything."

"My passport might raise some red flags if I tried," House pointed out.

"I'm serious, House," Wilson said. "I'm doing this for us. Just trust me."

Wilson wouldn't say another word about it for the rest of the day. Even with the good company, and even with knowing he was sleeping with the good company, driving quickly got monotonous. They'd driven a good part of the day yesterday, too, and there was only so many times they could trick each other by saying "Hay, look," in a mock-excited tone and pointing at nothing more exciting than bales of hay. Even Wilson's Sirius satellite radio couldn't keep House entertained all day. He used Wilson's credit card to download first medical journals, then porn, onto his iPad, but the porn just made him want to do Wilson again, and Wilson refused to stop for the night until they got to Nebraska. And when they did, Wilson was so tired from doing most of the driving that he didn't even want to have sex. The next morning was another early one, with another long day of driving ahead of them. They didn't make it all the way to California that night, but they got into Nevada, and another day's driving would take them all the way into San Francisco.

When House got up the morning of their final stretch, at first he thought Wilson was gone, maybe getting breakfast or coffee or something, but as he went toward the bathroom, he heard his voice talking. It sounded like he was on the phone.

House frowned and stepped closer to bathroom door. Who could he be talking to? As far as House knew, Wilson hadn't had contact with anyone since they'd left. Was he maybe booking a motel room or something?

"…So how long does it take, you know, between the time we meet and the time the procedure is done, to the time we find out…uh-huh…All right…Yeah, that sounds good…Yes, yes, I'm really excited…I can definitely do tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock? I'll be there, I'm really looking forward to meeting you…Thanks, you too…Bye."

House heard Wilson hang up the phone, then his footsteps on the tile as he approached the bathroom door. House stood his ground and then came face-to-face with a surprised-looking Wilson as the latter opened the door.

"House!" Wilson said, taking a step back. He was already dressed, shaved again, and had probably been planning on waking House soon. "I thought you were still asleep. How long have you been up?"

"Long enough to hear something about a 'procedure.' What the hell is going on, Wilson? Why are we really going to San Francisco? Who are you making an appointment with?"

"House, I promise, I'll tell you everything once I know for sure, okay? But nothing is set in stone yet, and I…if this doesn't turn out the way I plan, then I don't want us to have to go through it all."

"No," House objected. "You can't do this. You can't keep things like this from me."

"It's not about you, House. Not yet, anyway. But I swear, House, the…second…I know for sure, as soon as I get the call, you'll be the first person I tell. I promise." He pecked House on the lips even though House wasn't exactly in the mood for it, then went over to the table and started putting things into his suitcase. "Now since you're up, why don't you get dressed? It's only eight hours to San Francisco from here, so we can stop wherever you want for breakfast."

Under any other circumstances, House would have refused to move, refused to cooperate in any way until Wilson told him exactly what he was planning. The only reason he did what he was told was because he thought it might have something to do with Wilson's cancer, maybe with removing it, or at the very least, giving him longer than four months, and if that was the case, House didn't want any sort of delay.

The only thing that confused House was that Wilson had been so adamant about refusing to treat himself. Even if there was some sort of clinical trial or something going on in San Francisco, Wilson wouldn't have been interested. Maybe his and House's movement from friends to lovers had increased his will to live, changed his mind? But House didn't think so. House and Wilson didn't suddenly love each other more just because now they were expressing it physically, the feelings had always been there. And if a deeper relationship was what Wilson had wanted, House would have given it to him at any time.

House tried to think of all of Wilson's reasoning for not wanting to continue to treat his cancer after the first round of chemo had failed. He hadn't wanted to be sick in bed, hadn't wanted to go through all the pain of chemo and radiation. So maybe there was a new possible way of treating cancer that wasn't as painful? But how was that possible? House would have heard of it. He'd been catching up on medical journals just yesterday in the car, and a new cancer treatment would have been huge news. Unless it was something specific to Wilson's type of cancer.

The moment they got on the road again, House was on the iPad. He spent the whole morning searching for alternative cancer treatments, for clinical trials in and near San Francisco, for thymomas, for everything he could think of that might give him a clue.

He found nothing. No new developments in trying to cure cancer that he didn't already know about, no clinical trials that Wilson might qualify for. Nothing. Nothing implying that going to San Francisco—or anywhere else, for that matter—would do any more for Wilson's cancer than staying in Princeton would have.

So why else would they be going there? On the phone, Wilson had specifically said something about a procedure. If not something to reduce the size of or remove his thymoma, then what? He'd made an appointment for tomorrow morning, but would House be able to tag along? He doubted it.

"Wilson, why are we going to San Francisco?" House asked periodically throughout the day, hoping Wilson might get frustrated or annoyed enough to answer him, but knowing that he wouldn't. Each time they stopped for gas or a bathroom break, to eat or trade off driving, House considered refusing to get in the car until Wilson told him, but even though his searches gave him nothing to imply that their trip was for Wilson's cancer, House didn't want to risk it.

They made it to San Francisco late in the afternoon, but this time the motel they got was actually somewhat decent rather than dirt-cheap. This told House that Wilson was planning on staying more than a couple of days.

House waited until Wilson was sleeping, until he was _sure_ Wilson was sleeping, and then got up and logged onto Wilson's laptop. But Wilson had cleared his Internet history and had not added his appointment to his calendar. House spent another few hours searching more obscure Web sites, looking through Wilson's files, and reading about San Francisco in general in hopes for a hint, but still didn't find anything that gave him a clue why they were here. Finally, exhausted and frustrated, House gave up and went to bed.

Wilson had already left when House woke up, even though his appointment wasn't until 9 and it was barely 7 (maybe the appointment was somewhere else and San Francisco had just been to throw House off?). He'd left House coffee and bagels and a note saying he should be back a little after 10. House napped, decided more Internet searches would be a waste of his time and only frustrate him, and ordered pay-per-view while he waited.

It was almost 10:30 when Wilson returned. "Hey," he said as he walked into the room, looking happy. "You got my note?"

"Wilson, where were you?" House asked, getting up off the bed and walking over to his best friend. "We're here now, we're in San Francisco like you wanted, now tell me what's going on. Who was your appointment with?"

"House, I'm sorry, I can't. Not quite yet. We just had the first meeting today, just a preliminary meeting, nothing has been confirmed yet."

"When, then?" House demanded. "When are you going to know for sure? When are you going to let me in on your scheme?"

"It'll be a few weeks before I know anything," Wilson said apologetically. "She said she'd call me by this weekend to let me know her decision, and then…we'll see, House. Okay?"

"No," House contradicted. "It is _not_ okay. You suddenly needing to drive halfway across the country to make mysterious appointments about mysterious procedures and not giving me anything to work with…you can't do this, Wilson."

"House, you weren't even supposed to find out about the appointment or the procedure," Wilson said. "I'm sorry that eavesdropping piqued your curiosity even more, but…I just can't tell you yet."

"Just tell me one thing," House said, taking a step closer, leaning heavily against his cane and giving Wilson the most serious look he could muster. "Is this about your cancer? Are you trying to get rid of your cancer?"

Wilson took a step back and studied House carefully. It was a moment before he responded, and when he did, his voice was very soft. "I told you, House," he said. "I gave the chemo one shot, and it didn't work, and then I was done. I told you I didn't want to spend my last months in a hospital. I don't want to go that way. I can't count the number of arguments we've had about it. What makes you think I've changed my mind?"

"I don't know," House said, frustrated. "I don't know anything because you won't _tell_ me anything. Maybe now that we're doing it, you've decided you want to try giving living a shot. Maybe you're so worried I might kill myself after you die that you're now trying to prevent yourself from dying. Maybe you found a way to treat your cancer that doesn't involve you losing your hair and puking your guts out all the time. How the hell should I know what's going through your head, Wilson? Because you won't tell me a goddamn thing."

"Fine," Wilson said shortly. "I'll tell you a goddamn thing. This has nothing to do with my cancer. Happy?" He stormed into the bathroom and let the door slam behind him.

House sighed and sat back down on the bed. Not only was Wilson mad at him now, he wasn't any closer to figuring out what was going on. If it wasn't cancer, then what was it? What else could it be? Nothing work-related; Wilson hadn't worked in ages. What could he be planning?

Maybe Wilson was lying about it not being about his cancer. Maybe that was why he wasn't telling House anything; he didn't want to get his hopes up in case it didn't work. But would he go so far as to lie about it?

"Wilson?" House said, getting up and knocking on the door.

"What?" Wilson responded, his voice muffled.

House tried the door, but he'd locked it. "Come out of there. I won't bug you about it anymore." _Until later_, House thought.

Wilson opened the door. The happiness from earlier had vanished; he just looked upset.

"Come on," House said. "Aren't we at least going to do anything fun while we're here?"

Wilson sighed and stepped into the room. "Sure. I'll let you pick."

"Anything but Alcatraz," House said. "I've had enough of prisons to last me a lifetime."

Fortunately, that got him a smile. "All right," Wilson agreed. "Come on, let's check out the Web site and see what there is to do."

—

They stayed in San Francisco for a few days, and Wilson made no mention of leaving. Sometimes at night or early in the morning, House would wake up to see Wilson on his laptop. Whenever this happened, Wilson would close it as soon as he noticed House was awake, and then change the subject before House even had a chance to ask what he was up to. Half the time he would try and distract him with sex, which usually worked. House still wanted to prod Wilson, to find out what he was planning, but Wilson refused to tell him and House didn't want them to fight.

Wilson must have gotten another call one time when House was asleep or showering or something—they were almost never apart—because one evening over dinner he announced that he had another appointment the next day.

They were eating in a nice restaurant, which they'd been doing since they'd arrived here. Places with expensive wines and starch tablecloths and market-priced menu items.

"Does this mean you're going to tell me tomorrow?" House asked, cutting up his steak before taking a bite.

"No," Wilson said, sipping his wine. "But it means we can go to Vegas next week. We don't need to stay here anymore."

"Good," House nodded. "I'm sick of this place."

"Don't say that," Wilson said. "We're coming back—hopefully. But after tomorrow we'll be able to take a vacation."

"I thought this whole thing was a vacation," House commented.

"Sort of," Wilson admitted. "All right, think of it as a vacation within a vacation."

"Done. Are we gonna book ahead of time for Vegas? If we're going to do it, we need to do it right."

"Sure," Wilson agreed. "After I get back from my appointment tomorrow. Maybe we could even plan an itinerary so we could try and fit everything in."

House was excited about Vegas. It had been one of the things he'd been most looking forward to since he and Wilson made the decision to travel the country. He hadn't been in years, and back then he'd had a budget to stick to. This time, he and Wilson could gamble as much as they wanted and stay in the fanciest hotels. What were they saving money for?

In the morning, House was awake when Wilson was getting ready to leave, and watched him get dressed from the bed. Wilson grabbed his keys from the dresser, smiled, and approached House.

"Wish me luck," he said.

"I don't know what I'm wishing you luck for," House argued. Wilson leaned down and kissed him for a moment that was much too short.

"Wish me luck anyway," Wilson murmured, still holding the back of House's neck and resting their foreheads together.

"Fine. Luck," House said. Wilson's lips, blurry from this close to House's face, twitched into a smile. He kissed House again, briefer this time, and then stood up.

"I shouldn't be too long, maybe an hour."

"Will you let me know how it goes?"

"I won't know for a couple weeks, House. But I promise, as soon as I know, you'll know."

And he stepped out of the motel room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Wilson didn't say anything else about his appointment, no matter what House asked. He didn't give him any more hints as to what it was about, and was diligent in clearing his Internet history every time he used his computer so House wouldn't know what those long hours of research were about.

But, true to his promise, as soon as he got back, they started planning Vegas. There was just so much. So many hotels to choose from, so much to see and do.

"We need to go big, Wilson," House said. "We need to get the best room at the best hotel. And we need to do everything."

"All the hotels are nice," Wilson said, his fingers tapping on the keyboard as he clicked link after link. Each place was fancier than the last, rooms with more square footage than Wilson's condo and House's apartment put together. They planned a ten-day stay, booking tickets for more popular events toward the end and deciding ahead of time on certain restaurants, bars, and casinos they absolutely had to go to. It was a ten-hour drive from San Francisco, so they hung around the city for the rest of the day and left first thing in the morning.

Even though it was another long day of driving, the atmosphere was much more to House's liking. This time they were going somewhere House wanted to go, and he knew exactly where they were going and why. The next ten days would be filled with all of House's favorite things: drinking, good food, good sex, gambling, Wilson, live entertainment, relaxation, and no work. Even though curiosity about Wilson's mysterious plans would probably bug him, House decided he'd try to forget about what Wilson wanted in San Francisco. Wilson said it would be a couple of weeks before he found anything out, and if he hadn't told him anything yet, he probably wasn't going to. Unless House got him very drunk. But House wasn't even sure he wanted to do that. In the past, getting Wilson very drunk had caused him problems in the bedroom (so House had heard), and during the ten days of their vacation, House planned on having sex with Wilson at least 20 times. Maybe 25. He didn't want to jeopardize any of them.

They arrived at the hotel right on schedule, just before dinner time. They were staying at Mandalay Bay, three golden towers connected in a Y-shape, and although they weren't able to book the best room the hotel offered, they were doling out a decent amount of cash on the largest and nicest hotel suite either of them had ever stayed in. There was an amazing view of the strip from every room, and lights twinkled for miles. There was a beautiful granite bar, an elegant dinette set they wouldn't use, comfortable couches around an enormous plasma TV, and of course a king-size bed and a luxury bathroom with a giant jetted tub.

"Wow, House," Wilson murmured as they entered, taking in the expensive furnishings and the view from all sides.

House smiled, leaning over to kiss Wilson on the cheek. "I have awesome taste."

"You have expensive taste," Wilson said, walking from the living room to the bedroom to put the suitcases on the bed.

"What difference does it make anyway?" House asked, following him in. He sat down on the bed beside the suitcase and tested the springiness. They were going to have some fun here. "What are you saving for?"

Wilson didn't answer; he kept walking and checked out the fancy bathroom. House got up and followed him, eyeing the tub. They were going to have some fun there, too. "Double vanity," Wilson commented. "How considerate, we won't get in each other's way."

"Unless we want to," House said. He blocked the doorway with his body so that Wilson couldn't get back into the bedroom, and encircled his waist with his arms when he tried. Wilson gave him a flirty smile and held him back, then kissed him softly. House held him tighter and kissed back, bringing it deeper and more intense.

"Mmm," Wilson murmured, pulling back but still holding him. "I thought we were going to eat first."

"I'm not hungry," House lied. He was actually starving, but what was right in front of him looked much more appetizing right now than anything Vegas had to offer.

"Hmm, I am," Wilson said after another kiss. House ignored him, kissing him again and again. Wilson pulled away again, laughing. "Let's at least _order_ room service first," he suggested. He squeezed House's ass and moved past him into the bedroom. "Then while we're waiting, we can fool around. How does that sound?"

House decided it was a fair enough compromise, especially considering that he _was_ hungry. He pulled Wilson onto the giant bed as soon as he'd hung up the phone, and this time Wilson was one hundred percent compliant. The bed was not only decorated much more tastefully than any of the other hotels; it was also very comfortable and perfect for sex. The gorgeous view—even though neither man was looking at anything but the other—did help set the atmosphere. That and the fact that they were both pumped for the week ahead and, after a long day of driving, ready to get out of the car and have fun.

House leaned Wilson against the fluffy pillows and the headboard, and straddled him to continue their kiss. Their hands explored each other's bodies: chests, backs, necks, hair. It was all still so new and exciting, even though they'd been doing it almost every day for over a week now. House wanted as much Wilson as he could get, and Wilson, somehow, felt the same about him.

They weren't kissing for long before clothes started coming off—neither of them had the patience to wait too long, especially after the long day. First their sweaty t-shirts, and socks, jeans, and boxers soon followed. Once they were naked, they wrestled on the bed, each man trying to get on top of the other. House won out, holding Wilson's wrists as he laid him flat on the bed. He caught his breath for a moment, staring down at Wilson and watching the beautiful brown eyes look right back at him. He kissed Wilson again because he had to. First his lips—he spent a long moment there—then down his neck to his collarbone and chest. He ran his hands up and down Wilson's sides as he moved down his body. As he got lower, he stuck both his hands under Wilson's ass cheeks to squeeze and massage the tender flesh.

"House," Wilson, his fingers gripping House's arm tightly.

"You want me?" House asked, close enough to Wilson's erection that his breath hit it as he spoke.

"Yes!" Wilson said breathlessly, arching his back and pressing the back of his head into the bedspread.

House was more than happy to oblige. He took Wilson into his mouth and proceeded to pleasure him, moving one of his hands between Wilson's legs to play with his balls while his mouth worked at his penis.

House used every technique he knew on Wilson, and listening to his uncensored cries was just as fun as the act itself. He wasn't going to lie and say he'd never thought about making love with his best friend—he'd though about it quite frequently, in fact—but when he did, he'd thought things might be awkward or uncomfortable, especially at first. He'd thought they might be reserved with each other and wouldn't show their true feelings out of fear of what the other man would think. Maybe it was the cancer, maybe it was the fact that Wilson had less than four months to live, but that wasn't at all how things had actually been with them. It wasn't that they held each other every night declaring their love (they actually hadn't even said the words I love you since this had started), but when they expressed it physically, it was surprisingly intimate. Though House never referred to it as such out loud, what they were doing was making love more than just having sex, and they both knew it. Wilson's desire to try something new sexually had just been a ruse, really, an excuse to get the two of them naked in bed together so they no longer had to pretend that their feelings for each other were strictly platonic. Why they had never just approached the subject like normal people House would never know, but none of that mattered now. They were together now, and that was the only thing that mattered.

"House," Wilson breathed. The fingers of his left hand combed through House's hair repeatedly. "House, faster, more. Please!"

House was more than happy to oblige his lover's request. It was so sexy to see him like this, giving himself freely, letting House see him lose control. Wilson held nothing back, and neither did House. He went at him like there was no tomorrow (knowing full well that, one day soon, there wouldn't be). He took everything in his mouth that he could, almost gagging. His hands worked other sensitive parts of Wilson's body while his constantly moving tongue worked the most sensitive part. Wilson writhed and panted, squeezed whatever parts of House he was holding, and at last erupted into House's mouth before slowly lying still on the bed.

For a second, House just watched his lover. Wilson was beautiful like this, fully naked, eyes closed, relaxed and high and perfect.

But he only watched him for a second. Then he crawled over and poked him in the side. Not with his finger.

"Wilson," he murmured. "Wilson, I'm glad you had fun, but I'm desperate here."

Wilson opened his eyes and laughed. "I would have been happy to oblige you," he said in a teasing voice, "But you insisted on doing me first."

"I want you even more now than I did before," House said. "Come on, Wilson. Do you have any idea how tempted I am to finish myself right now?"

"I won't allow it," Wilson said with authority. "Move over, get against the pillows over there."

It would have been very comfortable if House hadn't been so aroused and in such desperate need of release. But Wilson was soon sucking him off and it was more than worth the wait. It was almost worth the 20-year wait. Almost.

One hand combed through Wilson's hair while the other touched the side of his face. He watched Wilson work—or tried to. Keeping his eyes open was difficult. He was so close already; performing the act on Wilson had been almost as arousing for him as it had been for Wilson. He wasn't tempted to hold back the sounds his body wanted to make. The time for games and hiding what he felt was past. He let loose completely, let his mind go blank as his body experienced waves and waves of pleasure and Wilson. Just when he thought he couldn't get any higher, he did. He gripped one of Wilson's hands in his—Wilson's other hand was occupied. He knew it would be now, it had to be now. He was there, he could feel it. Why did Wilson keep changing things up on him? To torture him? Or maybe just to keep him higher for longer.

"Wilson," House breathed. "Come on." His head rolled back against the pillows. He felt his heart racing, he felt every nerve in his body, particularly the ones Wilson was touching, he felt them all conspiring, building...this had to be it, it had to be.

It was. With a cry, he was there. He felt it, felt it everywhere and never wanted it to end. He slumped against the pillows, and felt his heartbeat slowly decelerate as satisfaction began to replace bliss.

Wilson hadn't moved much. He'd let go of House's penis with his hand and mouth, but his head was still in House's lap. He lay on the bed, head resting against the inside of House's left thigh. One of House's hands remained in Wilson's hair, the other holding one of Wilson's. They sat like that a moment—neither saw any reason to move—until House's consciousness returned to him fully.

He looked down at Wilson and ran his fingers through the disheveled hair while Wilson kissed the palm of the hand he was holding.

"I'm glad you didn't lose your hair with chemo," House murmured absentmindedly as he stroked it. "Though I would have been willing to sacrifice it to keep you longer."

Wilson smiled. House couldn't see his lips—they were still obstructed by the hand Wilson had been kissing—but he saw it in his eyes. "I know." He shifted in House's lap to get more comfortable, laying on his back. He didn't let go of his hand, but continued to hold it against his mouth and kiss the palm. House did not cease stroking Wilson's hair.

"Why didn't we do this sooner?" Wilson asked wistfully.

"Because we're idiots."

Wilson nodded. He kissed House's wrist. "It's my biggest regret, you know," he murmured. "I mean, I know I've lived cautiously, all the Kyle Calloway bullshit...but that's just who I am. I don't regret being who I am. If I...if I could only do one thing differently...it would be you."

House nodded, even though Wilson couldn't see him. They sat in silence for a moment, and House mused that he couldn't remember the last time he felt this at peace.

The peace was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.

"Room service!" a voice called into the room.

"Dinner!" Wilson said, scrambling out of the bed. "I forgot! Where are my pants?"

House hadn't forgotten, but Wilson's alarm amused him. "Here," he said, handing Wilson a pair of boxers.

"These are yours," Wilson said distractedly.

"Does it matter?"

Wilson smiled and pulled them on. "Coming!" he called to the door. He grabbed a shirt—also House's—off the floor and pulled it over his head as he walked to the door.

—

House and Wilson slept in late the next morning, but House was excited to get down to the casino.

"Hurry up, Wilson," he said as Wilson stalled at the ATM. He looked around the room while he waited, wondering what he wanted to play first. He knew they would have plenty of time for everything—ten nights was a long stay, even if they weren't hitting the casino every day—but today was their first full day there and he was anxious to get started.

"All right, coming," Wilson said, tucking his debit card back into his wallet and smiling at House's enthusiasm. "Here," he said, handing House five hundreds. "This is your budget for this afternoon, so don't lose it all in the first hour."

House stared at the bills in his hand. "Five?" he said, weighing the bills in his hand and looking at Wilson. "Seems a little light, don't you think?"

"I don't think so," Wilson disagreed. "That's a thousand between us, and we're here until next Thursday. The hotel suite you picked isn't exactly cheap either, not to mention dining out every night and all these shows we're going to."

"So what?" House asked. "What are you saving up for? Just put aside enough to last us another few months."

"House, I don't want to spend all my savings."

"Why the hell not?" House demanded. Spending a ton of money was one of the things House had been looking forward to about this trip.

"We might need it for something."

"Like what?"

Wilson looked at the floor and didn't answer.

"Like what, Wilson?" House repeated. He took a step closer. "Wilson. Answer me. Does this have anything to do with what you're planning in San Francisco?"

"I told you, I'll tell you when I'm ready," Wilson said, his voice cool. "It's my money, House, and I want to save it."

"No, half of it's mine," House argued. "I left everything to you, you have all my savings, all my assets, all my 401(k)."

"You're legally dead," Wilson reminded him. "It went to me, so it's legally mine. House, please," Wilson said. He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We're here to have fun. We can have fun without blowing ten thousand dollars a night."

"But we won't be able to play at the high tables," House complained.

"What does it matter? We're here, aren't we?"

"What aren't you telling me, Wilson? What are you saving money for?"

"Drop it, House," Wilson said, and this time his voice was stern. He looked serious, and his tone warned that another word would get him angry. He hadn't spoken to House like this since they'd left Princeton, he realized. They'd had arguments now and then, but they hadn't really fought. They had to put up with each other all the time, and they knew they only had a limited time together, so fighting was counterproductive.

"Fine," House sighed. He also tried to smile. "Can you blame me for wanting to know, Wilson?"

"I guess not," Wilson murmured. He gave House a real smile, then a quick kiss. "Now let's go. We're here to have fun, remember?"

House remembered. And he loved fun, and he didn't want to let the budget get in the way. They started with Texas Hold'em, at one of the cheaper tables so they wouldn't lose everything right away. And it was fun. House would have preferred to be laying down black chips rather than red ones, but the game was still the same. And Wilson wasn't at all bothered by it. He seemed to be having the time of his life. It was probably a good thing they were at the cheap table—Wilson had no poker face. Or maybe a wide smile that easily became a laugh was his poker face. House knew him well enough to read him easily, and not even the shittiest hand dampened his mood or his expression.

Each of them won a few hands—House more than Wilson—though the meager award from winning a hand didn't make up for what they were losing. Their budget half-spent, they left the Texas Hold'em area for blackjack, and then blew the last of it at the roulette table.

"We were off by one," House complained as they walked to their car. They'd placed all of their chips on 11, and the little ball had landed in 12. "I think it's rigged."

Wilson laughed and squeezed House's hand. "We knew there was no way. We needed to leave anyway, we have a 7:00 reservation."

Their reservation was at one of the most expensive and prestigious steakhouses in the city, and after that delicious meal, tickets to a comedy show. It was late when they finally got back to their hotel, though the city was still very much alive, bright lights of every color sparkling everywhere the eye could see.

House and Wilson had started drinking around five, and though they'd eaten and taken breaks throughout the evening, they were both feeling tipsy despite their high tolerance levels. This being the case, neither man had been able to keep his hands off the other for the last hour. The fact that they were in public meant nothing, but they were still thrilled when they finally got to their hotel room, because that meant that clothes could finally come off. As the two of them fell onto the bed, tangled in each other's arms, House decided that nothing: not their budget, not Wilson's agenda in California, not House's future or even Wilson's cancer, mattered in this moment together.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Okay, here's the deal. I'm almost done writing this story (it's currently at 13 chapters plus an epilogue). I noticed that I haven't been getting as many reviews for the last couple chapters as I did in the beginning, and I'm wondering if people are losing interest. If you're reading but not as impressed with a chapter and aren't reviewing for that reason, I'd rather you let me know why you didn't like something so I can improve. Anyway, I've so far been publishing every seven days because I didn't know how long it would take me to finish writing. Since I'm almost finished writing, it's possible to speed up the process. So here's the deal: if I get more than 10 logged-in reviews, I'll publish in five days rather than seven. If I can get 20, I'll publish after 3 days :-) They don't have to necessarily be positive reviews, just honest ones and just so I know people are interested. Thanks!

**Disclaimer: **The place in this chapter is based on a real place. I researched and looked at photos, but I've never been to Vegas, so most of it is poetic license.

**Chapter 5**

The next couple of days in Vegas were spent much like the first. House and Wilson slept in late, had an expensive hotel breakfast, sometimes got massages at the various spas in the city, gambled (Wilson still wouldn't let House spend more than $500 a night), had a fancy dinner, went to some sort of performance or another (they particularly enjoyed the showgirls), and topped the night off with loud, crazy sex in their amazing hotel room. One day, about halfway through their visit, however, Wilson told House that it was time to change it up.

"Casino after dinner?" House asked as they drove to tonight's five-star restaurant. They hadn't hit the casino at night yet, and House was hopeful that Wilson might be willing to raise the stakes a little if they did.

"Mm, I actually had something else in mind," Wilson said.

House took a double-take. Wilson's tone intrigued him. It was some weird combination of mysterious and flirty, as was his smile. He had to know House was watching him, see him out of the corner of his eye, but Wilson kept facing forward. House had thought he'd had enough of Wilson's mysteries to last him a lifetime, but he didn't think this had anything to do with San Francisco. This sounded like something House would find out about tonight. House could wait until tonight. Especially if sex was involved, which it seemed like it would be.

When they got into the cab after dinner, Wilson gave the driver a name that sounded like "Excess." He'd done research on Vegas before on since they'd been here, and he couldn't remember a place called Excess.

"Where exactly are we going, Wilson?" he asked.

"We're doing something we haven't done before," Wilson said. He smiled and put a hand on House's knee. "It'll be fun."

The building they stopped at was one of the hotels, but none of the hotels in Vegas were just hotels. They all had restaurants and casinos and lounges and all manner of upscale entertainment. The cab didn't take them to the main hotel entrance, but one on the side. There were people in skimpy outfits lined up outside between velvet ropes, and two beefy-looking men in black t-shirts at the front of the line.

"A nightclub?" House asked in disbelief. "What are we doing here?"

"What do you do at a nightclub?" Wilson asked. "You used to go dancing all the time."

House picked up his cane that was leaning against the seat of the cab and held it up for Wilson to see. "Remember this?" he asked. "I haven't been dancing since Stacy." That wasn't exactly true. He'd danced with Cuddy a couple of times, but he tried not to think about Cuddy. And he hadn't been to a club since before he hurt his leg. "Aren't we a little old for the club scene?"

"Like that matters to you," Wilson said, opening the door and getting out. "Come on, House. I want to."

House couldn't think of another objection, so he got out of the car and followed Wilson toward the entrance. They got in line behind a couple of young woman in dresses that barely covered their asses. Both turned to glance at House and Wilson as they got behind them, and started giggling. The blonde turned to whisper in the redhead's ear. The redhead laughed and said, "I don't know."

"Think we'll get in?" House murmured to Wilson in an undertone. Though there were some people in their thirties, House couldn't see anyone who looked a day over forty, and everyone was dressed in the latest fashion. Not a single article of clothing on House's body was younger than the women in front of him, and it wasn't the most clubbing-appropriate attire.

"I brought some extra cash just in case," Wilson whispered back, taking House's hand and squeezing it.

But bribing the bouncer proved completely unnecessary. He hadn't turned anyone away; he was mostly checking IDs, and he let House and Wilson in immediately.

It was loud inside, and busy—but not packed. House frowned, looking around. From the looks of the crowd outside, and what he'd remembered from his clubbing days, he'd expected the inside to be filled with little more than sweating bodies and half-empty glasses everywhere, but it wasn't. It had a very upscale feel. The walls glittered with gold molding, and chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Giant picture windows opened up to a pool area, and there was seating all around, both for groups and more intimate areas. Behind one of the bars were golden sculptures of naked women—but they were artsy rather than trashy. And once they were inside, House could see that not everyone was under 25. While young people did make up the majority, and the dim lighting made it harder to tell, House spotted a few faces that had to be at least in their forties.

"Come on," Wilson murmured in House's ear, putting a hand on his waist. "Let's get a drink first."

They stepped around the dance floor to one of the bars. House's cane proved useful—people were willing to move aside after a sharp tap in the shin. There were a few, like the girls outside, that laughed at the sight of them, but House didn't care and knew Wilson didn't either.

After they got their drinks, they stood near the bar and sipped, watching the mass of writhing bodies. There was a reasonable amount of room to move around in the seating areas and near the bars, but the dance floor was positively full of people, all dancing—with varying degrees of skill—to the pounding music.

"Let's get outside," House said to Wilson, raising his voice to be heard. "Fewer people."

Wilson nodded, took a long sip of his drink, and followed House toward the courtyard entrance. Next to the pool was a gazebo with another bar and more seating, but the music was just as loud, and people were dancing out here as well.

"Shall we?" Wilson asked, giving House a flirty smile and holding out his hand.

House knocked back the rest of his drink, put the glass on a nearby table, and wiped his mouth. He leaned his cane against the back of a chair and took Wilson's hand. Wilson also put his drink down, putting his newly free hand on House's waist.

The music was fast, and both men were a little out-of-practice, but that did not dampen their fun. Neither did the few people who pointed and laughed. Most were too caught up in both actual and potential dance partners to even notice House and Wilson, anyway. And it wasn't long before House and Wilson were too caught up in each other to notice their own surroundings. Their hands did not stay in one place for more than a second, and though they would occasionally leave the other's body in the spirit of dancing, it was never for long. House had his left leg in between Wilson's, almost grinding him, and kept one of his arms circling his waist, roaming from his ass to his neck and back again.

Though he was genuinely enjoying himself, after a few songs of constantly moving and being on his feet, House thought he might be ready to have another drink and sit down. When this song ended, he decided.

Then Wilson distracted him from his plan. One of his hands found the back of House's neck while the other went around his waist to push their bodies even closer together. Their chests were touching and Wilson was leaning closer, and then they were kissing and all his reasons for wanting to stop dancing vanished. A little extra strain on his leg was a small price to pay for Wilson this close to him.

Then something—or someone—pushed against House's shoulder hard enough to send him staggering. He put too much weight on his right leg, began to buckle, and would have fallen if Wilson hadn't grabbed him just in time.

"You okay?" he asked, helping House straighten up.

House nodded, the breath knocked out of him, and started to reach for his cane. Wilson handed it to him, and then turned to glare at the man who had pushed him. He was still standing right there, in a wife-beater with tattoos covering his arms. A slutty-looking girl stood beside him.

"What was that about?" Wilson demanded. "You could have hurt him."

"This ain't no homo club," the man said, then spat at Wilson's feet. "We don't want your kind here. Get the fuck out."

"We have as much right to be here as you do," Wilson said, putting his hands on his hips.

"Let me handle this, Wilson," House said, stepping forward and laying a hand on his best friend's shoulder.

The man laughed. "Look at this, Krystal," he said to the girl. "This faggot retard is gonna 'handle it.' What are you gonna do?" He flexed his biceps. "Hit me with that gimp stick of yours? You think I won't see it coming?"

"No," House said calmly. And before the man had a chance to react, House had jabbed out with his cane and pushed the man backward, where he stumbled a step or two before falling into the pool.

"Zeke!" the girl shouted, hurrying over to the edge of the pool. A few other people gathered around, watching the guy flop around in the water before finally surfacing.

"House," Wilson murmured nervously, grabbing his shoulder. House looked at him, then followed his gaze to where a couple of large men in black T-shirts reading "Security" were heading toward them.

"Should we make a run for it?" House asked, unbothered by the situation.

"I don't think we'll make it," Wilson said, sounding worried.

"Relax, Wilson," House said, rolling his eyes. "It wouldn't be a real vacation without a bar fight."

"I would still prefer to avoid getting arrested, if you don't mind."

The security guards arrived at that point, and Wilson shut up. Everyone watched as they passed House and Wilson without looking at them and went to the edge of the pool. One tossed Zeke a lifesaver, which he ignored in favor of wading to the edge. "Do I look like some sort of fucking retard that can't swim?" He hoisted himself out of the water without the security guards' assistance, and his girlfriend broke through the crowd and threw her arms around him. He ignored her, too.

"It was them," he said to the security guards, pointing a shaking finger at House and Wilson. "Those two cocksuckers pushed me in."

The security guards didn't even glance at House and Wilson. "It's time for you to leave," one of them said. "My colleague will escort you out."

"Let's go, junior," the other security guard said, laying a heavy hand on the man's shoulder.

"What? What about those faggots?" Zeke asked, glaring at House and Wilson even fiercer than before. "They pushed me in! They could have killed me!"

"I'll deal with them," said the security guard closer to House and Wilson.

The other one repeated, "It's time for you to go now," and applied pressure to his shoulder, urging him forward.

"All right, all right," Zeke said. "Come on, Krystal. We don't want to be in no club with no homos anyway." The girl clung to his hand as the security guard led them out. House watched them until they disappeared around a corner, then felt the other security guard's eyes on him. He felt Wilson shift a step closer, and they both watched the guard walk over to them. Were they going to get escorted out, too? Or something worse?

The security guard was smiling for some reason. He caught Wilson's eye and then House's before nodding and saying, "You gentlemen enjoy your night." Then he winked and disappeared into the crowd.

House and Wilson stared at each other. The others around them had went back to dancing, or inside, or to get another drink when nothing else exciting had happened, but it was a moment before House or Wilson moved.

"Well," House said eventually, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"We got lucky," Wilson said, though he was smiling.

"Let's get another drink," House suggested. His leg was killing him now, especially after the push, and he needed to sit down. Even though he didn't admit this to Wilson, his best friend saw the extra care he took when walking.

"Why don't you sit down?" Wilson suggested. "I'll be right back with the drinks. Double Jack on the rocks?"

House nodded and took a seat on one of the comfortable sofas near the pool. He took a Vicodin out of his pocket and swallowed it while he waited for Wilson to get back. Instead of putting the orange bottle back into his pocket, he studied it for a moment. That was another problem he would encounter after Wilson...he didn't want to think the word. He'd brought his stash with him when he and Wilson took off, but it wouldn't last forever. There was only so much he could get on the street, and only so much he could afford at street prices. Once he stole Wilson's identity (if that was what he decided to do, which he still hadn't), would he be able to get prescriptions? The medical record of his infarction was in his name, and he was dead. Would he be able to find a sympathetic doctor, or would everyone just think he was seeking a high?

"Here," Wilson said, handing House his drink and jerking him out of his thoughts. He sat down beside him, close.

House took his glass and held it up. "To homophobic assholes getting what they deserve."

"Cheers," Wilson said, and they clinked glasses and drank.

Dancing had been fun, especially with their bodies touching in a million places, but a sofa in a dark corner had its advantages, too. House had his legs resting over Wilson's lap, with Wilson's hand constantly moving up and down his thigh, and House held Wilson's waist and kissed his neck. Once again, they quickly forgot their environment as they got caught up in each other. The combination of hydrocodone, alcohol, and Wilson also drove House's leg pain down closer to normal, but he didn't want to return to dancing.

"What do you say," House breathed in Wilson's ear, fingers inches from his waistband and aching to dip under it, "we take this back to the hotel?"

"What do you think I say?" Wilson breathed back, taking House's hand in his and guiding it lower.

That was a definitive enough answer for House.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I'm going to be honest, there really isn't much substance to this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it, and more is coming in the next couple chapters, I promise.

**Chapter 6**

The cab ride back to the hotel was short. Or at least it felt short. The cabbie could have taken the longest possible way around and House and Wilson wouldn't have noticed. Nor would they have minded. They started kissing as soon as Wilson told the driver the name of their hotel, and didn't stop until the driver cleared his throat and said, "Twelve-fifty." With difficulty, because House wasn't willing to stop what he was doing just because they'd reached their destination, Wilson extracted a twenty from his wallet and handed it through the front. House reluctantly let his lover go long enough to get out of the car, and they somehow made it up to their hotel room.

Once they were there, they didn't even bother going to the bedroom. The sofa was closer, and it would serve their purposes just fine. They didn't even bother taking their clothes off, either. All that would have taken too long, and they were in too much of a hurry. It was enough to just unzip each other's pants and pull them down just far enough to reach the important parts.

Less than five minutes after the cab had dropped them off at the hotel, both House and Wilson were finished, panting on the couch in a sweaty and tangled heap, still hanging out of their pants and boxers as they caught their breaths and got over the intensity they'd created for each other.

Not that it was enough. The night was still young—sort of. Young enough for another, longer session.

"We're a mess," Wilson commented once he'd caught his breath enough to talk. "I haven't stopped sweating since we got to the club, and this didn't help." He gestured at the two of them lying on the couch. "I'm thinking a shower."

He made to get up, but House grabbed him and held him back. "No," he objected. "We're going to take a bath." House had been dying to test out the giant jetted tub in their bathroom—preferably with Wilson—but he hadn't had the chance to yet. Now seemed like the perfect time.

"Okay, a bath, then," Wilson agreed. He got up again, and this time House let him. "I'll start the water running."

House stayed on the couch to wait. Probably because he was the most awesome person in the world, Wilson took his pants the rest of the way off on the way to the bathroom. The view just increased House's anticipation of what was to come. He was already starting to get excited again. But this time he wasn't tempted to touch himself, to increase his excitement. He would have time. He and Wilson would have all night.

Instead, House kicked off his shoes and slowly undressed so that he would be ready for the tub as soon as the tub was ready for him.

"Come on in, House," Wilson called from the bathroom just as House was peeling off his sticky undershirt. He took another Vicodin and used his cane until he got to the en-suite, leaving it right outside the bathroom.

House smiled involuntarily when he walked through the open door. Wilson, still in his shirt and no pants, was leaning over the tub, feeling the stream of water for temperature. House could hardly imagine a more perfect sight to walk in on.

"Doesn't look like you're quite ready yet, Wilson," House said, limping over to stand behind him. He pressed his naked pelvis to Wilson's bare ass and reached his arms around to start unbuttoning his shirt.

"Feels like you're getting ready," Wilson responded, looking over his shoulder at House with a slight smirk.

"Always ready for a sexy bath," House confirmed, giving Wilson a slight thrust. He finished the last button and pulled Wilson's shirt off, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.

With a squeak of the tap, Wilson turned the water off and stood up straighter. "After you," he said, gesturing formally to the tub and holding out his hand as though he were leading House into a ballroom. House knew it was really to help him in, but he could pretend Wilson was just being playful. The water was filled with foam and smelled faintly of lavender or some other flower. House climbed in and settled himself comfortably, then pressed the button to start the Jacuzzi. He leaned back and sighed contently. It felt good, especially against his leg.

Wilson climbed in and sat across from him; the tub was big enough for them both to sit comfortably without being on top of each other—yet. The water came up to their chests when they were sitting, and Wilson lay down fully, submerging himself for a moment before emerging again, the water laying his hair flat against his head. "Hmm, that's better," he said, wiping his face. "I'm feeling cleaner already."

"We'll have to do something about that," House said. After Wilson had gotten in, the stupid bubbly water blocked House's view, and if he couldn't see, he wanted to touch. But Wilson was too far away for House to reach, so he'd been probing with his foot. Finally he found what he was looking for—and rubbed.

"Hey!" Wilson said in surprise.

"You have some catching up to do," House said, continuing the movements with his foot. Truth be told, the hot water had slowed House's own progress, but there would be plenty of time to make up for it. Feeling Wilson, even with his foot and even if he wasn't hard yet, was helping a little. And Wilson deciding to copy House with his own foot helped more.

But House wasn't ready to move things along yet. They'd done the quick easy one already, and now he wanted to play around a bit first. "I thought you said you wanted to bathe to get clean," he commented. He caught Wilson's foot in his hand—sorry as he was to remove it from its current location—and rubbed it with the hotel soap sitting on the edge of the tub.

"House!" Wilson jerked his foot away quickly. "That tickles."

"Does it now?" House asked, smiling with the newfound ammunition and reaching for Wilson's other foot.

"House—don't," Wilson warned, bringing his legs closer to his body.

"Don't think you're getting away that easily," House said, grabbing the side of the tub and edging over to Wilson to be next to him rather than across from him. Wilson moved over to make room. House settled next to him and reached across to hold his waist while he kissed him.

Now that the threat to his feet was past, Wilson kissed back. It was softer than it had been earlier, and slower. Back at the club, dancing close in the dark and then sitting practically on top of each other had gotten them so horny that lust had taken over. Now the urgency was gone, now they were kissing and holding each other out of an emotional desire to be intimate, not a physical desire for sexual release.

They took their time with the kissing this time, taking turns in each other's mouths while their hands explored the skin underneath the water. For the time being, they stuck to torsos and legs—that way they could build up to more exciting parts. House knew that might take some time. While initially entering the bathroom and seeing Wilson had had him nearly ready, soaking in a relaxing tub with jets of hot water massaging him everywhere had calmed him down significantly.

"This feels nice," Wilson whispered against House's mouth. "We almost don't need to take things further."

"Don't you want to?" House asked. He knew what Wilson meant—he was almost comfortable enough to fall asleep—but that didn't mean he wanted to.

"Well..." Wilson said, squeezing House's knee and smiling at him. "You had a point when you said we should fit in as many orgasms as possible while we're still together."

House smiled back, but only for a second because Wilson was kissing him again. He held onto House's waist with both hands as he swung himself over onto House's lap. The water helped to neutralize his weight, and he kept most of it on House's left leg, creating almost no pressure against House's right. He pushed their pelvises together as they kissed. Both were still soft, but that was beginning to change. House felt his heart speed up with Wilson on top of him, holding him and kissing him, and the feeling of Wilson against him, the bit of contact against his cock just made him want more of it. Wilson ran his hands up and down House's back, making him shiver involuntarily despite the warm water. He stopped kissing Wilson's lips and went for his neck, licking and sucking at the skin. He felt Wilson's arm erupt into goosebumps under his hand and heard his breathing speed up, accompanied now and again by a moan. Wilson was getting harder by the second—House could feel him—and the harder Wilson got, the harder it got House. He needed more contact down there, and thrust against Wilson to feel more of him.

"House," Wilson moaned. He took the sides of House's face in his hands and brought their mouths together, kissing hard. He wrapped his legs around House's back and pressed their chests together, creating as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. House gripped Wilson's side with one hand and his ass with the other; he needed the contact, too. And every second made him need it more and more down where all the blood in his body was currently flowing. He imagined being inside Wilson, he remembered all the times they'd done that and how incredible it felt. He remembered Wilson around him everywhere, Wilson's fingernails digging into his skin as House made him feel things he'd never felt before, Wilson crying out his name every time he hit that one perfect spot...

"Wilson, I need you," House groaned, leaning his head back and pressing himself to the man he loved. "Now."

Wilson nodded and kissed him. He raised his hips up off House's lap and then, with House holding onto himself and resisting the urge to touch more than necessary, lowered himself back down.

"Hmm-mm," House exhaled involuntarily. It was lucky they'd done it once already tonight, because House knew he wouldn't have lasted too long if they hadn't. He looked at Wilson while they waited for his body to adjust to the new position. Wilson held House's waist to steady himself while they started kissing again. After a minute, House felt his body tense slightly as Wilson prepared to start moving. He started slow—torture for House but necessary for Wilson—but increased his speed when House reached to fondle him under the water. The foam had cleared up a bit by now so House could see what he was touching, which just made him want to touch more. He listened to his best friend's gasps and moans of pleasure as he played with him, sometimes letting out sounds of his own as Wilson's tightness pressed against him. As Wilson increased the speed of his bouncing, House started thrusting into him in return, too impatient to wait any longer than necessary for the friction and contact. However, as Wilson's movement became faster, it also became less cautious, with his ass coming down hard on House's bad leg a couple of times. He put a hand on Wilson's waist to steady him and control the movement while he still could, though it was getting more difficult by the second to stay focused.

"Let's slow it down," House said, running fingers through Wilson's wet hair. "I want to last longer this time."

Wilson nodded. "Good idea." He held firmly to House's waist again, this time moving up and down on him with deliberate movements. He pressed his cock against House every time he came down, which House took as a hint. Wilson seemed to be more in control of his movements now, so House felt it was safe to let go of his waist and continue playing with a more interesting part of his body. Unlike earlier, when he'd just pumped Wilson as fast as he could to get to the finish, now he teased, playing with the skin. He squeezed lightly and let go, stroked with only a finger or two instead of his whole fist, tapped against the tip with little to no pressure. He wanted to build Wilson up slowly, bring him step by step to the point where he could no longer bear it...then finally give in.

And it was feeling like Wilson had a similar plan. He was moving up and down on House tortuously slowly, tracing his fingers in random patterns over his wet skin, an occasional fingernail adding a sharper texture. It soon became an unspoken contest on who could get the other more aroused by just teasing, and it went on for some time. The desperation, the intensity would build up...and then one man or the other would let go or slow down just to draw things out even longer. The water in the tub was starting to cool despite the heat generating from their bodies by the time they came to a consensus that it was impossible to go anywhere but forward.

House held Wilson's dick with one hand and his waist with the other to keep hold of him as he went faster and faster onto House. Wilson held onto House tightly, pushing himself against him as he came down. House pushed back, meeting him halfway with every thrust, aiming for the spot that would make Wilson cry out. The hand holding Wilson's erection had lost any finesse it might have had earlier and just held on and pumped, at first trying to keep time with his hips, and then just going whenever it could.

Any thought not related to what they would soon experience left House's brain. He had his eye—and his dick—on the prize now, and every touch, every movement was made with the sole purpose of getting the both of them there. He felt himself get closer with every heartbeat, every strangled breath. Wilson's hardness pulsed against his palm and the tight muscles inside of him added so much pressure right where House needed it. He could hear and feel that he was giving Wilson pressure right where he needed it, and each moan and clench just made him determined to cause more. He'd thought he was going as fast and with as much force as he could, but he managed to move faster, to pound harder, to get himself and his lover higher and higher. Every second gave him another wave of feeling, every wave brought him closer to the one that would be the last, every time a wave brought him closer, he needed to either hold out longer or strive to go over the edge. Try and wait for Wilson. Once Wilson is there, you can let yourself go. Make it happen for Wilson, then you'll get what you need.

Wilson was close. House could feel it in his body, hear it in his breaths and his moans.

"Almost there," House breathed without meaning to. "Come on."

It felt like an eternity later—though it was probably only a minute or less, and even if it was an eternity, it was quite an enjoyable one—when Wilson finally climaxed. House thrust in hard one last time as Wilson came down him, hitting his prostate perfectly to make the orgasm the best it could possibly be for Wilson, and as he felt his supersensitive tip make contact with that supersensitive gland, he was there and he was coming and for that one perfect instant there was nothing in the world but his and Wilson's bodies and the pleasure centers of their brains coming alive all at once in this moment together.

For minutes, they didn't speak. Wilson had both his arms and legs wrapped around House, his head on his shoulder while the hand that had held Wilson's waist was now against his back. House didn't want to move. If he had things his way, neither one of them would move for the rest of eternity.

Unfortunately, however, his stupid leg had other ideas. Wilson was buoyant enough in the water and was still angling his body to House's left, but while this reduced the pressure against House's missing muscle, it didn't eliminate it, and after a long round of sex it had had about all it could take. House only squirmed a bit, but it was enough for Wilson to notice.

"Oh," he said, letting go of House immediately back backing off of him to instead sit on the floor of the tub. "Sorry, House."

"I'm fine," House muttered, irritated that something so stupid had to interrupt a moment that would have been so perfect.

"We should probably get out anyway," Wilson pointed out. "The water's gone cold, not to mention dirty."

"You don't delight in sitting in a tub with your own semen floating around?" House asked mock-incredulously.

Wilson laughed. "Not as much as you do," he said, and got up.

It was a mark of how incredibly spent House was that the sight of Wilson's naked body standing in front of him didn't cause any sort of movement in his cock. Of course, they had done it twice in a row, and he wasn't as young as he used to be, either. It didn't mean he didn't enjoy the view, though, and he scowled when Wilson chose to block his view with a towel.

Now that Wilson was out of the tub, House became more aware that the water really was starting to get cold, and the prospect of their bed seemed much more appealing. He helped himself up with the grab bar and took the towel Wilson gave him before draining the tub.

"So," House said as they made their way back into the bedroom, "Cirque du Soleil tomorrow?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

As much as they were enjoying Vegas, as the trip neared its end, doing the same thing every day was starting to get old. House was trying to talk Wilson into increasing their gambling budget for their last night, but so far all he'd said was "We'll see." They weren't seeing a show their last night there—they had skipped the casino in the afternoon and were going to head there after dinner. In the middle of their meal at a prestigious restaurant known for the best wine selection in the city, Wilson got a phone call. House fell silent in the middle of his sentence and stared at his best friend as the now-familiar tone and buzzing emitted from his pocket.

Wilson smiled. "Excuse me a sec," he said to House, but answered his phone without getting up from the table. "Hello?"

House tried to listen to the other half of the conversation, but he couldn't even tell if the voice on the other side was male or female, let alone what they were saying.

"Yes..." Wilson was saying. "...And...? No. No, that's perfect actually." His smile was growing. "I don't even need to think about it, go ahead and tell them yes. You still have the fax number I gave you? Yes, I'll get it back to you tomorrow. Thank you so much." He hung up and beamed at House.

"What?" House said. "San Francisco?"

"No, that was from Princeton," Wilson said, putting his phone away. "All right, House, we can increase our budget for tonight. I just sold my condo."

House knew he should feel happy about the news—if Wilson had died before the condo had sold, it would have gone to Wilson's parents. Or the bank. But this way, a considerable amount of money was added to Wilson's bank account, which House would take control of after Wilson died. So yes, it was good news, but it was good news completely unrelated to Wilson's plans back on the west coast. True, Wilson had said it would be two weeks before he found anything else, and they were still four days away from that two-week mark, but he'd gotten his hopes up anyway.

Wilson knew what House was thinking, and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. "Soon, House. Tomorrow's Thursday, and she said she'd call me on Sunday. And as soon as I hear from her—no matter what she says—I promise I'll tell you everything. But for tonight, let's just forget about all that. I just sold my house, and you've been begging me all week to let us play for higher stakes. So we'll go out with a bang tonight, head back out tomorrow, and then hang out until we hear from her. But there's no reason be concerned about it before then."

House nodded, but the fact remained that he _was_ concerned. Wilson may have let them splurge on the food, the hotel, and the shows, but he'd been stingy with the gambling budget, and House hadn't been able to figure out just why. But if Wilson really was getting treatment for his cancer, he would probably need to pay for it. And even if it was covered by his insurance or some other means, Wilson extending his life would be a very good reason to want to save money.

Except that Wilson had explicitly said that whatever plans he had in San Francisco had nothing to do with his cancer. Had he been lying? If not, then what was he planning? What was he planning that required saving money?

Fortunately, whatever Wilson had gotten from the condo was enough to loosen his purse strings, and when they got to the casino, Wilson purchased each of them $5,000 in chips. And they had fun with them. They played the slots, blackjack, craps, roulette, and finished off the night with Texas Hold'em.

By the time they were ready to go to the poker room, House had just under $800 left and Wilson had just over $2,000. House had won more than Wilson, but he'd also betted more aggressively and lost more. On impulse, they chose a no-limit table. House talked Wilson into it, but he didn't need too much convincing. It was their last night after all, and Wilson had just sold $300,000 or so worth of condo. Even if they walked away with nothing, as they'd done a few times already, it wouldn't be too much of a loss, and House considered the fun worth the price. However, as they neared the last few hands (they'd agreed to stop at midnight), it was looking like they might not be walking away with nothing after all. By their last hand, House had won enough to put him over $1,300, and Wilson had almost $6,000. And it wasn't even that Wilson was taking big risks like House was—he was getting lucky. After the last flop, two people at their table of seven folded, and House decided to go all in. It was a risk—he was going for a straight but needed a ten and either an eight or a king to give him one, and that wasn't likely. Wilson and three others called his $950—other players were considering retiring soon too, and everyone was having fun—leaving five players left.

The dealer dealt out a six, turning House's potentially promising hand into a shitty one. The first player raised a $1,000, the second $1,200. Wilson surprised House by raising $1,500. It was the most he'd bet on a single hand all night. Was his hand really that good? House studied the cards on the table. A four, a six, an ace, and a queen, in every suit except hearts. If Wilson had a five and a three or a five and a seven, the six just dealt would help, but no guarantees. Maybe he had two sixes, or even a six and one of the others and was going for a two-pair. House studied his face; he looked calm, comfortable, and confident. He had reason to be—it had been a lucky night for him so far.

The last player folded, and the first two called Wilson's $1,500, bringing the pot to just over $12,000. The dealer dealt the last card: the eight of hearts. The first guy folded; the second one studied his cards for a second before raising $2,000. He was an older guy, maybe in his late sixties, and he'd been making high bets all night, and winning a few, too. House had creatively christened him "Guy Number 2," and had been able to read him pretty well after the first few hands, and thought he must have a decent one now. He was calm and dignified, and his pattern had been to either fold early or stick it out the whole way. Wilson had been doing the same thing. He now put in six purple chips—$3,000.

House raised his eyebrows, impressed, and tried to catch his best friend's eye, but Wilson wouldn't look at him. The ace and the queen didn't matter too much, but the four, six, and eight might. If Wilson had a five and a seven, that would give him a straight, which was the highest hand he could possibly get. Two aces would give him the highest possible three of a kind, but what if the Guy Number 2 had a five and a seven? Was Wilson willing to take that risk? He'd bet almost all his money now, more than he'd started out with this evening.

All eyes went to the other Guy Number 2 again, who was staring determinedly at his cards. Was he willing to dish out the extra grand and risk losing it? House thought he looked less confident than he had a moment ago—he clearly hadn't expected Wilson to raise the stakes that high. He probably hadn't expected him to raise them at all. Wilson usually kept his bets under a $1,000, even if he had a really good hand. House had been calculating in his head, and Guy Number 2 had already put almost $5,000 in this hand. If he called or raised and Wilson won, that would be almost a $6,000 loss.

After what felt like an eternity, the man laid his cards down on the table and whispered, "Fold." House's heart jumped in his chest. Wilson won by default. Even though House was still technically playing, the most he could get was $2,700. The value of the pot was over $17,000. And it was theirs.

"All right, let's see, then," said one of the guys who'd folded earlier and had been watching intently since.

"Yeah, Wilson, what do you have there that's made you take the biggest risks you've been taking since we got here?" House added.

Wilson smiled and showed his cards, smiling widely. A two and a seven. Aka, nothing.

"Are you serious?!" exploded Guy Number 2, who'd just lost nearly $5,000. "You were bluffing? You asshole, I had two pair, I would've beaten you!"

House started laughing. He'd even beaten Wilson—his highest card was a jack while Wilson's was a seven. The rest of the players showed their cards, and Wilson turned out to have had the worst hand of the table.

"I believe this is yours," Wilson said warmly, handing House five purple chips and two black ones, taking the other nearly $15,000 dollars for himself. Guy Number 2, the only one who'd stayed in the game the longest besides House and Wilson, seemed a little irked, but the rest of the table was impressed with Wilson's daring, House especially. He'd just single-handedly won back all they'd lost in gambling on this trip, and then some.

"Want to play again?" one of the younger guys at the table asked House and Wilson eagerly.

Wilson smiled and shook his head.

"We're not going for another seventeen grand?" House asked mock-disappointedly, and Wilson laughed.

"No, I think it's time to cut our losses," he said. "It's been fun playing, good luck to all of you." He tipped the dealer and shook Guy Number 2's hand, and then he and House headed out of the poker room to cash in their chips.

—

House watched the countryside roll by, the wind whipping his hair as he and his best friend headed back to their temporary home of San Francisco. He and Wilson were still basking in the glow of their win last night. It hadn't been enough to cover the bill for their super-fancy hotel room, but there was enough left over after making up for their gambling losses to also cover a few nights' worth of food and entertainment. They were more on top than they would have thought, especially with Wilson's condo finally selling, and in a good mood.

"So what are we doing when we get back to the city by the bay?" House asked. He was still counting down the days until Sunday (3) in his head, the day Wilson promised to tell him what his plans were. He didn't expect to find out before then, but maybe their plans for the meantime might give him a hint.

Wilson shrugged. "Just hang out, I guess. We can make a day trip or two, if you want. But now that the place in Princeton sold, I think we should look for something more permanent than a hotel room. If the news we get on Sunday is good, I plan on living my life out in the San Francisco area."

House wondered what would constitute good news, but knew better than to ask. "Why did you pick San Francisco then?" He said instead. "You chose one of the most expensive markets in the country and you want to move there?"

"I know, which is why we won't choose something in San Francisco proper. We'll do some house-hunting. It is a relief to finally have the condo sold, though," he smiled. "That helped my budget more than a little bit."

Instead of staying in a hotel when they got back, Wilson took them to a furnished temporary apartment that he had found while they'd been in Vegas. It was small for the two of them—one bedroom—but comfortable. Even knowing it was just temporary, it felt good to be living in an actual home rather than a hotel after being on the road for a month and a half. Wilson seemed to let his guard down a little, but he still spent a lot of time on his laptop. On Sunday morning, House wandered into the kitchen to see Wilson sitting at the round four-seater table. The laptop was open, and Wilson was taking notes on a legal pad.

House stepped quietly over the linoleum and stood behind Wilson, peering over his shoulder. Wilson knew he was there—his cane made enough noise on the floor, and the only other sound in the apartment was the morning birds outside the window—but for once he didn't slam his computer shut and change the subject. Instead, he looked over his shoulder and smiled at House.

"Take a seat," he said, pulling out the chair next to him. House moved over and glanced at the screen to see a real estate Web site. "I'm looking in the suburbs of Oakland, if we buy outside the city we can get much more space for a decent price."

A quick look at Wilson's legal pad showed a list of towns, neighborhoods, addresses, and names of what House guessed were real estate agents. He then turned to Wilson. "Did you say 'buy'? You're looking to buy a place?"

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "But I want you to have a lot of say in it—you're going to be living there longer than I will."

"I don't need you to buy me a house," House said. "What if I don't want to stay in California after you die?" House wasn't even sure he'd want to be staying anywhere. But if he did decide to live, he'd need money, which he wouldn't have if Wilson spent it all on a house they didn't need.

"What's wrong with California?" Wilson asked. "The weather's nice, the population's big—it's not like you'll be in a small town where someone from your past might recognize you. And it's on the opposite side of the country from Princeton. This is where I want to live out the rest of my life, and if you really want to move again down the line, you can sell the place then."

"It would be easier to just rent for the rest of your life," House said. "So if I do decide I want to move, I won't have to deal with the hassle of selling anything."

"Which is why I want you to be a major part of this decision," Wilson concluded. "Now sit down, take a look. What's important to you in a home? I've already added a nice tub to the list, and I'm trying to narrow it down to one story so you don't have to worry about stairs..."

House opened his mouth to argue again, but before he could respond, another thought occurred to him. Maybe Wilson was looking for a more permanent home because things were going to be more permanent, for both of them. Everything seemed to be riding on this phone call that was supposed to be happening today. Wilson had said that it wasn't about his cancer, but he could have been lying. The phone call could be about some sort of treatment he might be getting to extend his life. Maybe he was trying to give himself more than the short three-and-a-half months that his prognosis declared for him. Could he have been taking any sort of medications recently without House noticing? He certainly hadn't been doing any chemo, but House concluded it was possible for him to be taking some sort of pills while House was asleep. But if he was taking medication, what was he taking, and why? Or was whatever treatment or surgery he'd planned waiting on this call?

Once when Wilson was asleep, House had stolen his phone and gone through it. There had been a few recent calls to Bonnie, his ex-wife, who'd apparently been handling the condo sale, and a few other calls to someone listed in the phone as Rebecca. There wasn't a last name or a company to go with it, and House hadn't called, but he'd put the phone number into White pages. It was just listed as a landline in Berkeley. House had no idea who Rebecca from Berkeley was, but it seemed that Wilson's fate—and indirectly, his own—lay in her hands.

House played along with Wilson's house-hunt for about an hour, when they agreed to get brunch. They drove to a little cafe a few blocks from their temporary apartment where House ordered a Southwestern skillet and Wilson a salad. Wilson did most of the talking, and kept it to the homes they were looking at.

"I really need to find a good real estate agent, it's too bad we don't know anyone around here," he was saying as he sipped his iced tea. "And I wish I knew more about which neighborhoods are nice and which aren't—that's the problem with moving to a completely new place, you know nothing about where you're living. But it is looking like they have homes available in our price range, which is a huge rel—"

Wilson cut himself off in the middle of the sentence, and House immediately knew why. Emitting from his jeans pocket was a repeating chime and a buzz that somehow cut through the noise of the crowded restaurant. House and Wilson stared solemnly at each other as Wilson lifted the phone and put it to his ear.

"Hello?


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

House stared at Wilson, trying to read his face as he took the call.

"Hi, Rebecca, how are you?" At her response, which House couldn't hear, Wilson's face lit up with joy. "Really? Oh my god, are you sure? That's...oh my god, that's wonderful. I can't tell you how excited I am. Thank you so much...Of course I want to come..." He laughed at whatever she said next. "Thanks, I appreciate that...Sure...All right, see you soon then. Thank you so, so much. Have a good one." He smiled at the phone as he pressed end and put it away, and then finally turned to House.

"Well?" House said, expelling a burst of air as he spoke. He'd been holding his breath throughout the entire phone call.

"House..." Wilson said, reaching across the table to take his hand. He tried to form a serious face, but that only lasted a second before he was beaming again. "House, listen, I...I want you to keep an open mind."

"Keep an open mind about what?" House asked, immediately on his guard. He looked at their entwined fingers next to the plate of cold sausages and wondered what Wilson needed to hold his hand to tell him.

"I..." Wilson started strong, then faltered. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, so I'm going to just come right out and say it." He looked House straight in the eye and squeezed his fingers as he spoke. "House, I'm having a baby."

The world stopped in its tracks. The servers and busboys moving about the restaurant blurred; the sounds of customers eating and talking faded to nothing. Wilson was staring at him, his smile gone now, expression expectant but nervous, his bottom lip hiding under his front teeth.

"You..." House said, his voice sounding like someone else was speaking. "You're _what?_"

"I'm having a baby, House. I met a woman online who was looking to be a surrogate. That's who my appointment was with when we first got here. We met, she interviewed me, and after thinking about it and talking it over with her husband and family, she agreed. Right before we left for Vegas, she and I went to the clinic and did the artificial insemination, and today she took the pregnancy test, and it was positive." He broke into a smile again. "I'm having a baby, House. I'm going to be a father."

"No," House said, pulling his hand away from Wilson and staring at him. "You're not. You'll be dead before the mom even starts feeling the baby kick. You won't even be alive to find out if it's a boy or a girl. What...what the hell were you thinking, Wilson?"

"I know I'll never get to meet him," Wilson said sadly. "I know that this was...completely irresponsible and selfish and that she would never have agreed if she knew I was dying, but...it's something I had to do." Wilson shook his head, looking in House's general direction but with his eyes glazed over and far away. "I've never felt something so strong in my life. I'm dying, House, and I just..._had_ to leave something behind. I can't handle the thought of knowing that when I'm gone, that's it, and no part of me remains. I can't die and leave behind nothing."

"You've left behind plenty," House argued. "How many people are alive today because of you?"

"They would have had other doctors if it wasn't for me," Wilson said. "Maybe they'll remember me, but their kids won't. And it's not like they think of me all the time. It's not the same."

"But what about me?" House demanded. "You think I'm not going to remember you? You think I'm not going to think of you every day for the rest of my life and curse the fact that you're gone?"

"Sure you will, but that doesn't mean much if you don't plan on living for long after I die," Wilson said coolly. "And you know what? You're the other reason I did this, House. The next time I see Rebecca, I'm telling her that if something were to happen to me before the child is born, I want it to go to you. You said you had nothing to live for, House. Well, here you go. I'm leaving you a child. Someone to take care of and love after I'm gone. If that's not a reason to live, I can't think of one."

"You can't do that," House said, shaking his head. "You can't just have a kid without consulting me just to dump on me. It's one thing if the kid existed before you knew you were dying, but to actually conceive a child with the knowledge that you'll never see it, just to give it to someone else...who the hell does that, Wilson? And you didn't say a goddamn word to me!"

"Because I knew you'd react like this and try and talk me out of it!" Wilson countered.

"Exactly! Because you know just as well as I do that I don't want a kid!"

House pushed his chair away from the table and grabbed his cane, getting up and storming out of the restaurant as fast as his limp would allow him. He stepped into the warm sunlight and started down the street, away from the restaurant and away from Wilson. His mind was spinning. He still couldn't believe what Wilson had told him. How could he do something like that?! Didn't he have any idea how much responsibility raising a child was? And he was just going to push that responsibility onto House without even telling him until it was too late? It was the most selfish and irresponsible thing Wilson had ever done. He was manipulating not only House, but the surrogate mother as well, and affecting the life of an innocent child that should never even have existed.

Maybe it wasn't too late, though. The surrogate mother, Rebecca, she had just taken the first pregnancy test. There was still a chance that it was a false positive, or Rebecca might miscarry. If the artificial insemination was done right before they left for Vegas, that would have been about the end of June/beginning of July. Wilson's passing would probably happen sometime in September or October, but probably past the twelfth week, and House wouldn't want to abort it after that. He didn't really want to abort it at all, now that it existed. Maybe Rebecca would be willing to keep it. Maybe after carrying it for nine months, she'd even _want_ to keep it. Wilson would be long gone by the time it was born, he wouldn't know the difference.

Before House could stop it, an image, a flashback passed through his brain. He was in a burning building, but hallucinating a warm home, and Stacy held a baby out to him.

_This is a reason to die_, he remembered telling her. _This is what my life could have been, not what it can be._

In that moment, at least for that moment, he'd regretted that the wife and kids thing had never happened to him. Not only had he never had that life, it meant he had no one to leave behind.

But that didn't mean he wanted a kid now. It was one thing to wonder what his life would have been like if he'd gotten married and had a family, it was quite another to actually have a child to raise. Even if he had gotten married, to Stacy, or if he hadn't been so bitter over her and his leg that he'd found someone else, she would have had to really talk him into having a child. It probably would have taken years to get him to agree. And he only would have done so under the assumption that she would be there with him, helping him with the hard parts and making up for all the mistakes he would surely make.

And sure, he'd experienced that to an extent with Cuddy and Rachel, and it hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be, but he couldn't imagine doing it on his own. Even when he'd had to babysit Rachel, it was much easier and much more fun when Wilson was around.

Wilson. He wouldn't have minded raising a child with Wilson. House suddenly had a vision of himself and Wilson standing together in a nursery, staring into a crib as their child slept.

But that would never happen. Wilson wouldn't live to see this child born.

And that part of this news upset House just as much as the news itself. House had been so hopeful, so incredibly foolishly hopeful that these mysterious plans were about his cancer. Even though there had been no evidence to back it up, even though Wilson had unequivocally denied it being about his cancer, it hadn't stopped House from hoping, wishing that Wilson was changing his mind and seeking treatment. He'd had the idea in his mind that Wilson's 'procedure,' as short as it had been, was some sort of treatment that House had somehow never heard of to shrink the thymoma, or test it or something, and that it just took two weeks to get the results, to find out if it had worked or not. True, House couldn't imagine what they would do that wouldn't require Wilson getting scanned to find out the results, and he didn't even know of other options to treat the thymoma besides the chemo and radiation that Wilson had so adamantly refused. But even with his long hours of research on the subject, House had still held out the hope that there was something he'd overlooked, something he'd missed, some new or alternative way of treating cancer that Wilson was pursuing.

"I was an idiot to ever think that," House murmured to himself. He'd known that there were no other ways to treat his cancer, and he'd known that Wilson had accepted his fate. It just proved his theory that people's brains stopped working when they were in the process of losing someone they loved.

"House!" Wilson's voice called from behind him, and House turned to see his best friend running toward him. "There you are," he said, stopping at House's feet. "Come on," he said, taking House's hand again. House let him this time. "Let's get back to the apartment. We need to talk about this."

—

Wilson sat on the cheap sofa in the living room while House paced in front of the coffee table. They hadn't spoken on the ride back over, and House had a million questions and accusations, but he didn't know what to say or yell first.

"All right," House said finally, turning to face Wilson and leaning against his cane. "When you were making this extremely irresponsible and selfish decision, did it cross your mind for one nanosecond that I do not want kids and you know that perfectly well?"

Wilson sighed. "Yes, I know. I know you don't like the idea of having kids, I know this is the most selfish thing I've ever done, but you know what? I don't regret it. I know you'll warm up to the idea of having a child by the time it's born, and if you don't, give it up for adoption."

"Wilson, you don't make a child for the purpose of giving it up for adoption," House said, rolling his eyes.

"I know, which is why I really hope you'll reconsider this. It's my child, and I hope you'll love it as much as I do. I want you to be the one to raise it. If I..." He sighed, running his fingers through his hair, and House moved to the couch to sit down beside him. Wilson turned to him. "Do you remember...back in Indianapolis, when I first decided to come here, I said it was my dying wish?"

House nodded. Wilson put a hand on his leg, and House didn't stop him.

"This is why," Wilson said softly. "This is the one thing I want more than anything in the world, I want to have a child and I want you to raise it. I..." He looked away and let go of House. "If you can't live with raising my child, I'll respect that. Maybe Rebecca will be willing to keep it, or there are a million other couples in this city who'd love a baby to adopt. Either way, it's a piece of me that will live on after I'm gone. But it would mean so much to me if it would be you."

House didn't look at him. "How can you ask that of me?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," Wilson murmured. "It's just something I had to do. For you almost as much as for me. House, I can't stand the thought of you ending your life just because mine is going to end, and if having a child is what it takes to give you a reason live, I'll do it a hundred times over."

"I never said I would kill myself," House said.

"But you implied that you might," Wilson pointed out.

House inclined his head. He still hadn't made the decision, but he hadn't ruled it out, either. Like Cameron had said, he deserved it. He deserved to end the pain. "So you're not willing to go through chemo and radiation to save your own life, but you'll have a baby to save mine."

Wilson smiled slightly. "Yes. Chemo and radiation would cause me pain, would restrict my life in a way I don't want. But having a child...resist it as much as you want, House...I think it could make you happy. It's mine, it would remind you of me."

"I don't need a baby to remember you," House said vehemently.

"You can't remember me if you're dead."

"You really think a baby will keep me from killing myself?"

"I can only hope," Wilson said. "It's something to live for, anyway. I can only hope that you'll respect my wish that my best friend raise my child."

"Does the phrase 'emotional blackmail' mean anything to you?" House asked.

"If it's what it takes to get you to live."

House shook his head. This was too much. It wasn't the first time his whole life had changed forever in one instant, but there had never been anything like a child involved before. He reminded himself that it would be nine months before the child was here, and there was still a chance that Rebecca would miscarry, or want the child for herself, and it was even possible that the pregnancy test had been a false positive—the at-home tests weren't always one hundred percent accurate. Even if the pregnancy went smoothly and Rebecca was willing to give up the child, House could also give it up. Wilson would never know, and House would have plenty of time to think about it. That was definitely something that would take some thinking.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

House and Wilson didn't talk about the baby much. Rebecca called Wilson back to tell him when her first ultrasound appointment was, and Wilson informed House that he'd be tagging along.

"I'm a doctor," House said to Wilson. "I know what a 4-week embryo looks like, and it's not that impressive."

"You don't even need to be in the room for the ultrasound if you don't want to," Wilson said. "But I really want you to meet Rebecca, and she's dying to meet you. I was thinking we'd grab lunch afterward so you could spend some time talking and getting to know each other."

If she was going to be the mother of his future child, that was probably a good idea. However, House hadn't yet decided if he even wanted to keep the baby. Not to deny Wilson his dying wish, not even to be selfish and not want the responsibility—he didn't even know if he could handle the responsibility. House knew that he hadn't always made the best choices in life. He drank, took drugs, and broke laws. He wasn't exactly father material. Maybe having a child would force him to mature a little, but he didn't know if he was willing to risk a child's well-being on maybe. What if he did a terrible job and Wilson's baby turned out...like him? Broken and bitter and selfish? Wouldn't any baby be much better off with two loving parents who knew what they were doing, who were ready for a baby? Who had friends and family to help? Wilson's baby deserved better than him.

House didn't say any of this to Wilson. He was worried Wilson might think he was just looking for excuses not to shoulder the responsibility. Maybe he was. Maybe he was just making up excuses because he didn't want the kid.

Or didn't he?

If Wilson had consulted him before jerking off into specimen cup and getting some woman to agree to be his incubator, House would have refused point-blank. He would have used every tactic he knew to try and talk Wilson out of it, and if that didn't work, he would simply have sabotaged them getting to California in the first place. He would have done everything in his power to prevent Wilson from conceiving this baby.

But now that it was sort of here, at least according to an at-home pregnancy test...well...Wilson kind of had a point when he said it was something to live for. It wasn't Wilson, it wasn't the man he loved and wasn't sure he wanted to live without, but unless Rebecca had been getting unprotectedly funky with her husband in the last two weeks, it was part Wilson. It was a piece of Wilson that would live on after the real Wilson was gone, and House was sure that if he gave it a chance, he could love that little piece of Wilson. He could grant the final wish of the person that meant most to him in the world. Wilson wouldn't be looking down from heaven or anything, he'd never get a chance to see it happen, but House could promise Wilson and actually keep his promise.

Which sounded all well and good and romantic in his head, but actually making the lifetime commitment to a baby was completely beyond his comprehension. Even if he thought he could do it, House was old to be a new father, and not in the greatest of health. Even if he somehow managed to get over Wilson's death enough to not commit suicide, there was a chance he could pass of natural causes before the child reached adulthood. His liver could give out, or he could have another infarction, or overdose. And if that happened, he wouldn't have a second parent to act as a buffer—Wilson Jr. would go right into the foster care system. House didn't want to inflict that pain on an innocent child if he didn't have to. If he gave it up for adoption as a newborn, there would be responsible and excited couples lining up for it. If he took it himself and then died when it was a child—or worse, a teenager—its chances of finding a stable and loving home were much less likely. Was he willing to risk that? Wouldn't giving the child away make him a better parent than keeping it and possibly messing it up for life?

And another thing—this baby wouldn't be born until five or six months after Wilson died. Would the promise of a child he wasn't sure he'd even keep be enough to last him that time? House didn't handle loss very well. Maybe he wasn't planning on killing himself, but he was planning on considering it, having the idea waiting there for him as a last resort. If he was forced into the role of parent as soon as his lover was taken away, maybe he would take to the role and use raising the child as a distraction from the fact that Wilson was gone. He couldn't mope if he had a crying baby in the house, it would need love and attention, and it would remind House that life went on.

But there wouldn't be a crying baby in the house. The baby would be safe and secluded inside Rebecca's womb, no comfort to him. House could try and console himself with the knowledge that it would be there soon enough, it was waiting for him, it was the best way for Wilson to live on. He could try and talk himself into staying alive for the baby's sake...but the fact was that House knew himself to make decisions in the heat of the moment that he regretted later. When Wilson died, there would be times when he'd be extremely tempted to just end it all, and a small life might not be enough to resist the temptation.

There was so much about this that he could say to Wilson, but he didn't. Maybe he didn't want to hurt his best friend, maybe he wanted to wait until he had more of a decision before letting him know what it was. Either way, he kept silent on the issue, and Wilson followed his lead.

What the two of them did talk about—Wilson mostly—was houses. Now that the pregnancy had been confirmed—by a pee stick if not a doctor—Wilson was ready to buy a home for the family he would never see. And it was annoying because he wanted House's input for every little thing. "You'll be living there longer than I will," he kept saying. As if House needed reminding. Wilson made them spend their days perusing Web sites and planning which open houses to see when the weekend rolled around. He read online reviews of realty companies and specific realtors. He made square footage comparisons and mused out loud which neighborhoods had better school districts...or would House just send the baby to private school? House was sorely tempted to remind him that Rebecca hadn't even had her first ultrasound yet. He fantasized about the idea of a false positive just for the sheer irony of it...except that Wilson would be crushed.

About a week and a half after the first call (which felt like a year and a half when they were house-hunting and a minute and a half when they lay in each other's arms at night), House got to meet the mother of his potential child.

Wilson parked in the handicapped space of the obstetrician's office, and he and House walked through the large glass doors into a moderately busy waiting room. There was apt seating, coffee tables and magazine racks overflowing with every parenting magazine ever published, and a children's play area populated by three loud toddlers. House quickly realized that the noise made the room seem busier than it was. There were only five adults seated, and only three pregnant ones.

"Is that her?" House murmured in an undertone to Wilson, nodding at the woman sitting closest to the children. Unless Rebecca wasn't here yet, it had to be her. The two other pregnant women were already showing and looked to be between their fifth and eighth months. The 5-monther was with an older woman House guessed to be her mother, and the 8-monther was sitting next to a bored-looking man House assumed was her husband.

"Yes," Wilson responded, smiling. "That's Rebecca."

Rebecca was reading a magazine and hadn't noticed them yet, but at the mention of her name she looked up and smiled. She looked to be in her early 30s and had light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wasn't overweight, but she wasn't thin, either, and was wearing Capri-length jeans and a fitted t-shirt with flowers on it.

"James," she said, getting up and setting her magazine down. He approached her, and the two embraced warmly. Now that she was standing, she appeared to be a little on the short side, but not by much. When she and Wilson let go, she turned to face House. "And you must be James's partner. I'm so excited to finally meet you." She held out a hand, which House shook.

"Call me House," he said.

"James has told me so much about you," Rebecca said, and House raised his eyebrows at his best friend for a second. "He said you're a doctor, too, one of the most renowned diagnosticians in the world."

"Sounds about right," House said. "Though he hasn't mentioned what you do."

"I work part-time," she said. "Just at a local craft store some days. Usually I try and stay home with the kids. It's hard to afford a nanny, but working brings in some extra cash, and it's nice to get out of the house once-in-a-while. My husband is a teacher, which you'd think would free him up over the summer, but he runs their summer program." She was about to say something else, but was interrupted by a blond 18-month-old running up from the play area and nearly into her legs.

"Mommy," he said. "Juice."

Rebecca smiled and picked the boy up. "And this is Thomas, my youngest. Thomas, can you say hi?"

The toddler looked at Wilson and House for a second before burying his face into his mother's neck. Rebecca laughed and set him back down, digging a Sippy cup out of the diaper bag next to her and handing it to him. He accepted it gladly and scampered back off.

"I have another one, Aiden, who's five, but he's in day camp."

"Why did you decide to be a surrogate?" House asked.

Rebecca's smile faltered for a second—the bluntness of the question surprised her. House guessed Wilson had asked her the same thing earlier, but that had probably been in a more formal and polite context. As she recovered, her smile returned and hazel eyes locked on House's. "As I was telling James, it's something I've been considering for a few years now. My sister had a difficult time conceiving, and before Thomas was born I was considering being a surrogate for her. We'd talked seriously about it, even started researching clinics, but then she and her husband ended up getting pregnant on their own. She carried my niece to term with no problems, thank god, but the idea of being a surrogate stayed with me. I had smooth pregnancies with both my boys, and for the most part I enjoy being pregnant. I think it's a kind thing to do, and I'm certainly not just in it for the money. I won't lie and say we couldn't use the extra income, but there were many more factors in this decision than that."

House nodded. She seemed genuine enough, but House wondered how much she was charging them. He and Wilson hadn't discussed the money. He'd assumed that she was asking some sort of compensation; he wouldn't have trusted someone agreeing to be an altruistic surrogate for a complete stranger, but he'd wanted to meet the woman before he asked Wilson about it.

"Does she pass?" Wilson asked House, and Rebecca laughed.

"So far," House said.

Wilson then turned to Rebecca. "Does he pass?" he asked with a smile.

"I wouldn't have agreed to surrogate for you if I didn't trust you to make a good choice of a coparent," she pointed out. "Especially without meeting him."

House was about to ask what they'd talked about as far as custody, but a medical assistant called Rebecca's name, and House waited in the waiting room with Wilson and the baby.

"I want you to come in for the ultrasound," Wilson said to House. "I know you were less than enthusiastic when you got the news, but I still want you to be a part of this. I want you and Rebecca to spend as much time together as possible—I want her to feel comfortable leaving the child with you after I'm gone."

"How is this gonna work, legally?" House asked, keeping his voice low so no one else would hear them. "Won't I need an ID to be a legal guardian?"

"Rebecca won't ask for your ID, she did a background check on me and I passed with flying colors. You heard what she said, she trusts me to trust you."

"But she thinks you'll be there with me," House pointed out. "She might not trust me on my own without that same background check, which would show that I've been in a mental hospital, jail, and now dead. That's not exactly passing with flying colors."

"That's exactly why I want her to get to know you as a person," Wilson said. "If we spend time together over the next few months, she'll grow to trust you and feel comfortable enough just handing the baby over when it's born."

"You do realize you're manipulating her from every angle?" House said. "And if she finds out about any of this, you could spend your last couple months in jail."

"I agree that what we're doing is illegal and unethical," Wilson murmured, "but that doesn't make it wrong. Just because you have a colorful past doesn't mean you'll be an unfit parent, so there's nothing wrong with me leaving my child to you."

"The child is half hers," House pointed out.

"Biologically, but she gave up the rights to it when she signed the paperwork."

"But if she tried to keep it, she'd get to. It's not like I can take her to court."

"Once again," Wilson said, "that's why we need to get her to trust and like you. Because no matter what promises she makes me, even when you both sign the agreement that you would get sole custody if something were to tragically happen to me, you have no power if she were to change her mind."

"Isn't the hospital going to need my ID before they let me take the bundle of joy home?" House asked.

"You'll be using mine by then. Rebecca doesn't need to know that the 'James Wilson' going on record as the legal guardian isn't the same James Wilson she originally had the agreement with."

House sighed and leaned back in his chair. Wilson seemed to have thought of everything, but there was still so much that could go wrong. Their story would fall apart with even the slightest amount of investigation. Maybe it would be easier for all involved for him to just give the child up. It was probably the better decision.

"Dr. Wilson?" the medical assistant said, appearing in the doorway. House and Wilson turned to her. "They're doing the ultrasound now, if you'd like to come see."

Wilson smiled. "Yes, I would." He got up and went over to Rebecca's son, who was still playing, and crouched down. "Thomas, you want to go see your mommy?"

The little boy nodded and took his hand, and House followed them as they went down the hall to the ultrasound room. Wilson was the one who was good with kids, not him. What had he been thinking, having a baby just for House? How could this possibly work out without everyone getting hurt?


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"And here is the master suite," the real estate agent said in his annoying nasal tone, opening the door to a large room with a king-size bed decorated like it had come from a magazine.

"It's a great size," Wilson said, stepping in and looking around. "You said the bathroom had a soaker tub?"

"It does," he nodded enthusiastically. "Brand new." His voice held pride, as though he had been the one to make, choose, and install the tub.

"Come on, House, let's take a look," Wilson said.

House swallowed a sigh and followed Wilson into the bathroom. There was no doubt that it was nice, almost as nice as their Vegas hotel room had been, but House had gotten bored three houses ago, and the real estate agent annoyed him to no end. His name was Blake or Rory or Kendall, and he seemed to think that being a realtor was the most dignified and esteemed profession imaginable.

"What do you think?" the realtor (maybe his name was Chandler—it suited him) asked, a lofty smile gracing his lips. "Am I fabulous or am I fabulous?"

"It's very nice," Wilson smiled. "The bathroom is about perfect...the only thing that worries me about this property is that the kitchen could use a bit of updating and we're looking for something more move-in ready."

Avery (that one worked, too) sighed, as though Wilson's one criticism had inconvenienced his entire day. "Well, I still have a couple left that I can show you." He glanced at his designer watch. "Yes, we have time."

"Wilson, what was wrong with the last one?" House asked, rolling his eyes. "It had three big bedrooms and the world's most unnecessary kitchen."

"I liked the last one," Wilson said, following Quentin out of the bedroom and through the hall. "I just want to see what other options there are before we make an offer. And we should probably discuss it first, and sleep on it, too."

"Why do you have to be so indecisive?" House complained. "You didn't have this problem with the condo in Princeton."

"I had to make an offer on the condo in Princeton before Cuddy and Lucas snatched it up," Wilson reminded him as they passed through the open floor plan. "Besides, then I only had us to worry about, now there's a baby to consider."

House decided to stop arguing. He followed Wilson into Maverick's car, and the realtor took them a couple neighborhoods across town while he and Wilson chatted about granite countertops.

"Now, this one has great curb appeal," Colden bragged as they pulled into a driveway.

"The landscaping is nice," Wilson agreed, stepping out of the car.

House's only opinion about the place was that he liked that it appeared to be one story. A lot of the ones they'd seen so far had had basements if not a second floor, and the stairs had been more difficult for his leg.

"Does it have a basement?" House asked.

"No, it doesn't," Tristan said. "But it has a rather nice laundry room that also serves as a mudroom leading to the backyard."

"I really like the porch," Wilson said, running his hands over one of the columns holding up the overhang.

"Definitely," House agreed. "Can't you just see me in a rocking chair yelling at the neighborhood kids to keep off my lawn?"

Wilson laughed, but Bentley was above such things. He unlocked the door without a word and held it open for House and Wilson.

"I love all the light," Wilson said.

"It has a great open floor plan," Walker said. "And an updated kitchen."

The kitchen was nice. It reminded House of the kitchen in Wilson's condo, with a huge island/breakfast bar that looked out onto the living room.

"Is this granite?" Wilson asked, sliding his hand across the black surface of the counter.

"Quartz," Harken said. "Zero-maintenance."

"How many bedrooms did you say it had?"

"Three. And that doesn't include the office."

House followed them through the empty building, merely glancing at aspects of the house that Wilson thoroughly inspected. If he had to have an opinion, he'd say he liked the place, but he hadn't really had a problem with the other homes they'd seen either. It did have a nice master bath, and a big fenced-in backyard with mature trees. If House did decide to keep Wilson's kid, that would be good for it to play in. But he wasn't even sure they'd make it that far.

Fortunately, they only had to see one more property after this one, and Wilson quickly ruled it out because it was close to train tracks and on a busy street.

"Well, thank you for all your help, Parker," Wilson said to the realtor when it was finally time for them to part ways. "We'll talk it over tonight and then get back to you tomorrow if we decide we want to make an offer on any of them." The real estate agent nodded curtly and stepped quickly back in his office as though glad to be rid of them, and House practically dragged Wilson outside and to the car.

"So what did you think?" Wilson asked as they drove back to the temporary apartment. "A couple of them had potential, didn't they? Do you think we should make an offer or keep looking?"

"Make an offer," House said without hesitation. Although today was only their second trip out with the realtor, they had been looking on their own at open houses and online for nearly a month now. House wasn't sure how much more of this he could stand. Wilson had maybe three months left, probably less, and House didn't want to waste their limited time together with activities as boring as house-hunting.

"All right," Wilson agreed. "Which one did you like best?"

"You choose," House said. They'd all kind of run together after a while.

Wilson sighed. "How about this? How about I tell you my two favorites and then you pick from them?"

"Fine." That wasn't too bad a compromise. Maybe he'd be able to remember the differences if there were just two homes to compare.

"I really liked the one on Northshore," Wilson said. "It was the third one we saw, with those French doors leading from the master to the patio?"

House nodded, vaguely remembering. "It had that deck with the built-in seating."

"Right, and the living room had built-ins, too. Anyway, the other one I liked was Richfield. The second-to-last one we saw. You liked that one, didn't you?"

House hadn't hated the property, so he nodded.

"And that one was also just a block down from that playground," Wilson reminded him. "My only issue with that one was that the garage was detached, but that's something we can learn to live with, right?"

"Sure," House said because Wilson expected a response.

"So which one do you want to go with?" Wilson asked when House said nothing else. "Richfield or Northshore?"

House reminded himself that he was making the most major purchasing decision of Wilson's life, and answering "I don't care, they're both fine," would not cut it. Both of the houses met his limited criteria and Wilson's more extensive criteria. House couldn't remember the prices of either of them, but knew they were both in budget and neither of them needed any work more serious than a paint job from the looks of things. They were in the same school district and were about the same square footage.

"If it's the same to you, I guess I'll go with Richfield," House said.

Wilson smiled. "That's great, I really liked Richfield," he said. "As soon as we get home, I'll call Parker."

—

Wilson insisted on visiting with Rebecca and sometimes her family at least every two weeks, and he always pushed House to be an active part of the conversation rather than just sitting and listening. She agreed with no hesitation to give the baby to House "if anything should happen to Wilson," and signed a custody contract stating as much. It wouldn't hold up in court because House had signed with his real name, but it was enough to please Wilson.

House liked Rebecca's husband. His name was Scott and he was big on sports. He didn't mind the visiting as much when it involved sitting in front of the family's big-screen TV and watching a game with the boys. The older one, Aiden, was a talking machine who asked a question every three seconds, and as annoying as it was, House couldn't help but respect the little boy's thirst for knowledge. He reminded House of himself.

House and Wilson were able to buy the property on Richfield with no issues, and unlike with the condo, he had no problems furnishing it. Back in Princeton, House had challenged him to find furniture that reflected his personality. This time around, Wilson just bought whatever was kid-friendly, comfortable, and easy to clean. There wasn't any sort of design to his choices, but the mismatching of furniture somehow made the place feel homey. The neighbors were very friendly (a little too friendly for House's taste, though Wilson didn't seem to have a problem with it), and most of them were families with kids that were delighted to hear that House and Wilson were having a baby. Wilson had even come up with a manipulative scheme to prevent there from being an issue with House's identity. He told the neighbors that he and House both had the first name "James," and "House" was a nickname so people could tell them apart, and when they'd married in New York last fall, they'd legally changed House's last name to "Wilson." The neighbors somehow believed the ridiculous story that both men were now legally named James Wilson (Wilson said it was because the story was charming, and James was a common name), and the neighbors wouldn't know which James Wilson the house or child legally belonged to.

House would have been fine not being social or making friends with the neighbors, but Wilson liked to have people over for dinner or barbecue, and he also dragged House around to local events. House would put up a fight sometimes, but Wilson would always play the dying card and they would end up going out. House knew that Wilson was really doing it because he wanted House to get established and comfortable with the new community because it would help him feel at home there and make him more likely to stay. Except for the initial argument, House hadn't told Wilson that he was considering giving the baby up for adoption just as seriously as he was considering keeping it, but every time Wilson nested in their new house or suggested a baby article that House should read, it crossed his mind that everything might end up being completely pointless. Nevertheless, he went along with it for Wilson's sake.

Rebecca and her family sometimes tagged along when they went out. Near the end of August, their town had some sort of summer fest with carnival rides for the kids and a concert featuring local bands. House would have preferred to stay home and watch TV, but Wilson insisted they go with Rebecca and her family.

It really wasn't as bad as House had thought it would be. They went in the evening, when it wasn't too busy or too hot. Rebecca and Scott had brought their babysitter, who took the kids on rides while the adults (with the exception of Rebecca) drank beer and chatted, listening to the band playing in the distance.

"Let's get closer to the band," Rebecca suggested. "I've read that it's good for babies to listen to music while in the womb."

House opened his mouth to point out that the fetus was only eight or nine weeks old and its ears wouldn't develop enough to hear for another couple months, but Wilson put a hand on his wrist to hush him.

"That's a great idea," he said, getting up from the picnic table.

House rolled his eyes, but he followed the group toward the band anyway.

In the middle of the grounds, a large temporary stage was set up, and people were gathered around, some dancing, others just watching or talking. A lot of the bands that had been playing since they got there were just doing cover songs, which House didn't particularly care for, but this one had been playing for 10 or 15 minutes and House hadn't recognized the music. If they were original songs, they weren't bad.

"House plays guitar," Wilson told Rebecca and Scott as they chose a place to stand among the crowd.

"Do you really?" Rebecca asked.

Wilson answered for him. "He's really good. And piano, too."

"I took piano when I was a kid," Rebecca said. "And I'm thinking of signing Aiden up for an instrument when he gets a little older. But I don't know if he'd like it. I got bored with piano by the time I was ten."

No one spoke for a minute; they watched and listened to the band. House decided he liked them—the music was classic rock-style. The guys in the band were his generation and it seemed like they had a similar appreciation of music. He nodded his head to the beat without quite realizing he was doing it, and clapped with the crowd when the song ended. The next song that started was slower, and Scott asked his wife to dance.

"Don't think I'm asking you to dance," House told Wilson before his best friend could ask the same of him. He wouldn't refuse if Wilson asked, but he wasn't really in the mood for it.

"We don't need to dance," Wilson said, not looking disappointed, to House's relief. House turned back to the stage to watch the band instead. He felt Wilson's head come to rest on his shoulder, and then his arms encircled him from behind. House decided he could live with that. Even though they didn't exactly dance, they swayed back and forth with the music. Wilson's left hand held his right wrist, resting against House's stomach. House kept the hand not holding his cane on top of Wilson's.

How much longer would they be able to do this? Be this close and holding each other, not needing to talk but having a mutual understanding? How long would this be able to last? And what would happen when it was over?

House instructed himself not to think about that. It made much more sense to just enjoy the moment while he could.

They didn't let go even when the slow song ended and a fast one started, or after that. When the band started to pack up and the DJ started announcing the name and information of the band that would be next, House figured the others would probably want to leave soon (and he probably would too, if the band was no good), but he didn't say anything or let go of Wilson.

The decision was made for him a moment later when Rebecca and Scott's children and their babysitter appeared through the crowd.

"Mommy!" Thomas squealed, running up and into her arms.

"There you are," said the babysitter, a girl of maybe 15 wearing shorts over a bathing suit. She was holding Aiden's hand. "We were looking all over for you."

"Sorry," Rebecca said, "We thought we'd listen to the band for a while."

"We should probably get going, though," Scott said, looking at his watch. "It's past the boys' bedtime."

They headed to the parking lot together, with the babysitter trying to sell herself to Wilson the whole time.

"I know you live farther away from me than Rebecca and Scott, but I'll be able to drive by the time the baby's born. And I know that it'll be really little and everything, but I've had so much experience with little babies. And I'm like super-responsible and everything."

House was trying to tune her out, but it was hard because Wilson kept catching his eye and nodding toward her with his head as though saying, _Listen to her_. True, it would make sense for House to have a babysitter lined up ahead of time, but this was a little too far ahead. And he didn't even know if he was keeping the baby. Maybe after Wilson was gone he would think about it more, but putting it off was easier than dealing with it. The kid wouldn't be born for seven more months. That was plenty of time.

"We will definitely keep you in mind," Wilson was promising the girl. "It will be awhile before the baby is born, but after that happens, we'll start considering—" Wilson stopped in the middle of his sentence, and in his tracks. Everyone else had continued forward another step or two, but House turned back and then the others did, too.

"Wilson?" House said, taking a step closer to him. His eyes looked far away and unfocused, and he swayed on his feet. "Wilson!" House said again, dropping his cane on the ground and reaching out to try and catch him as he fell.

Wilson staggered, grabbing onto House. They stumbled and there was a horrible moment when House thought they were both going to fall into the asphalt, but they managed to remain on their feet. Their eyes met, and House was relieved to see Wilson focusing on him.

"Whoa," Wilson murmured, grabbing his head.

"You okay?" House said in an undertone.

"James," Rebecca said, hurrying to them. "Are you all right? What happened?"

It had only taken a matter of seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime to House. Wilson slowly straightened up and let go of House, but House kept a hand still on his arm, wanting to be prepared if it happened again. Wilson turned to Rebecca and smiled. "Sorry," he said. "I think I might have had one beer too many. House should probably drive home. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, and he nodded reassuringly.

"You go on home, we'll be fine."

Rebecca didn't look entirely convinced, and the babysitter looked a little nervous, but Scott led them toward their minivan and House picked his cane back up to continue toward their car.

"What really happened?" House asked once they were in the car. Wilson had only had two beers, that wasn't even enough for him to feel, let alone make him dizzy. "How long have you been feeling light-headed?"

"It came on all of a sudden," Wilson said. "I just felt really dizzy, and for a second I couldn't focus on standing up. I'm fine now, just tired. I'm sorry I scared you."

House didn't answer. He knew he should have been expected something like this to happen. Wilson was suffering from cancer that was going untreated, and the longer that happened, the more he would start to show symptoms, the final one being death. The estimate before that would happen had been five months (three of which had elapsed), but it wasn't an exact science. Wilson wasn't really in danger of suddenly dropping dead—the symptoms would progress first—but that might happen slower or quicker than anticipated. House had been hoping for slower. "Has this happened before?" he asked. "Have you had any other symptoms you haven't told me about?"

"Nothing like that," Wilson said. "I feel tired sometimes, but nothing abnormal."

"If there is, you need to tell me, Wilson," House said seriously.

"House, I will," Wilson promised. "One dizzy spell doesn't mean I'm going to die tomorrow."

"Weirder things have happened," House murmured.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Fortunately, Wilson did not die the next day. Or the day after that. But the lightheadedness had acted as some sort of a wake-up call, reminding both of them that Wilson was not going to be around much longer, and they both needed to prepare for that. Which somehow made Wilson decide that House needed to get a job.

"What do you mean, get a job?" House asked when he first brought this up. They were sitting on their back deck after dinner, enjoying the warm-but-not-hot weather. House liked their place more than he wanted to admit. The neighborhood was quieter than he would have thought, and even though they had back neighbors, both lots had trees in the yard to give privacy. The lawn did require maintenance, but Wilson had hired a guy to take care of that.

House wasn't appreciating the landscaping right now, though; he was staring at Wilson like he was crazy. "Get a job doing what?"

"I don't know," Wilson said, putting an empty coffee cup on the table. "What do you want to do?"

"When I was young, I considered being a doctor," House deadpanned.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm serious."

"So am I," House responded. "What am I supposed to do, call up Forman and ask for a letter of recommendation? I thought we were retiring, Wilson."

"Technically, you're still not old enough to be retired," Wilson pointed out.

"Technically, I'm dead," House argued. "How am I supposed to just walk into a hospital and fill out an application?"

"You can get a job with my name," Wilson said. "House, I know we're not in any danger of going broke, but raising a child is very expensive. You won't be able to put him through college just on what we have saved."

"Gee," House said sarcastically, "If only we'd thought of that before having unprotected sex. Oh...wait a minute..."

"You need a job anyway," Wilson said. "You're already bored now that we've settled down, don't pretend you're not."

"But I'd rather be bored at home than at a job," House pointed out.

"So find something that will interest and challenge you," Wilson said. "There's no reason you have to rule out the medical field. You're going to take my name after I die anyway, so you might as well also take my medical license."

"That's ethical."

"It's not like you're not a doctor."

"I'm not an oncologist," House said.

"So don't get a job as an oncologist. Be a general surgeon or something. Or how about teaching? The University of San Francisco is nearby, they have a medical school."

"You're thinking of University of California San Francisco."

"Whatever," Wilson said. He leaned forward in his chair, looking earnestly at House. "I still have the reference letter Cuddy wrote me when I left after Amber died. We can just change the date. And any of our other colleagues back at PPTH would give you a good recommendation if they thought you were me. They'd be surprised to hear from anyone, considering I'm supposed to be dying soon, but they'd probably figure I changed my mind about getting treatment or something."

House sighed. "This is a terrible idea. What if I get caught? Going to jail is one thing, going to jail with a kid at home is another."

"That's why you should get this taken care of now, before he's born. So that when the time comes you'll be settled and everything."

But House didn't want to get a job. And if he wasn't going to keep the kid anyway, there was no point in having one, and it would be hours with Wilson wasted.

"Why don't I wait?" House suggested, his voice low and looking seriously at Wilson. "Until after?" He took Wilson's hand and squeezed. "If you're only gonna be here another two months, I don't want to be spending those months working when it could be with you."

Wilson smiled and squeezed House's hand back. "I know. I understand. And I don't want to waste the time we have left, either. But House..." He sighed and looked away. "You...as hard as it's gonna be...you're going to need to learn to live without me." He turned to look back at House as he continued. "And I really think having a job could be good for you. That way you'll have people around you who can support you and you'll have something to wake up to in the morning. I know a job isn't exactly something to live for, but a baby is, and a job will help keep you moving on with your life until the baby gets here."

"You really think I'll be in a state of mind for doctoring after you're gone?" House asked. "When Chase's dad died, he killed a patient. And he didn't even like his dad. What do you think I'll do when it's you?"

"Don't be a doctor, then," Wilson said. "Look into UCSF—be a teacher."

House scoffed. "A teacher. I'm sure they'd be willing to hire the James Wilson on paper, but once they get the Gregory House—"

"You're a good teacher," Wilson interrupted. "You've done a class or two at Princeton before and the students always learn so much from you. Everyone learns so much from you. House, if you taught...I think the next generation of doctors would be better ones because of it. And I'm not just saying that."

"There's a lot more to being a good teacher than just being good at medicine."

"I still think you should give it a shot," Wilson said. "Who knows? You may like it. And if not, at least you've made some good contacts with doctors in this area. Maybe you can even open up a practice with someone."

House wasn't sure if the contacts he would make would be "good" ones or if everyone would hate his guts, but Wilson had a good point. Even if he did to decide to live and keep the baby, it didn't mean he needed to do the same job for the rest of his life. Teaching at a medical school would be a very good networking opportunity, and networking was the best way to find a job he would really like.

"All right," House sighed, ignoring the triumphant smile on Wilson's face. "I'll give it a shot."

House and Wilson checked out the Web sites of a couple different medical schools. UCSF was the only one that wasn't too far of a commute, but they did have a couple positions open for the fall semester, and House applied for each of them using Wilson's name and credentials. A week later, he got a phone call asking him to come in for an interview.

"Too bad you can't do this part for me," House commented after he scheduled it.

"It might raise some suspicion when someone else comes in for work the first day," Wilson said.

"You do realize I haven't had a job interview in fifteen years? And my last interview was with someone I'd slept with. We might not get so lucky this time."

"Just do your best," Wilson said. "Actually try and get the job. The worst that can happen is they say no."

"No," House objected. "The worse that can happen is if it _is_ someone I've slept with, they realize I'm not James Wilson, and send me to jail." House had not recognized the name of the person he was interviewing with, but that didn't mean that his potential boss wouldn't recognize him. Although even doctors who had heard of Gregory House and knew his reputation didn't necessarily know what he looked like, House had been to a decent number of medical conferences in his time, and while he went out of his way not to make contacts, there was still a chance that someone might think he looked familiar. He just had to hope that introducing himself as James Wilson would be enough to prevent anyone from thinking he was anyone else.

House's first interview went by without a hitch, but it was with a young woman from human resources who probably didn't know too much about doctors. She was apparently impressed enough with his resume to arrange a second interview, though, and this one was with the hiring manager for his potential department, a woman who was approximately his age and had done her fair share of networking. Her name was Dr. Kummer, and House had never heard of her, but she knew Princeton-Plainsboro, and she even knew one of the doctors House had listed as a reference. This was fortunate, because it warmed her to him. The interview, rather than at her desk, was at a seating area near a picture window. Her office was slightly smaller than Foreman's, but higher up and with a distant view of the Gulf. A warm breeze blew through the open window, ruffling her graying, chin-length hair. "You're certainly more than qualified as far as the medical aspect goes," Dr. Kummer said, referencing his resume. "And you've had a limited amount of experience teaching."

"I was the head of my department in a teaching hospital for ten years," House said. "In a classroom or in the hospital, you could say I've done nothing but teach."

"That's true," Dr. Kummer conceded, writing something down. "What made you decide to move to teaching medical students rather than doctors in a classroom or lab setting rather than a hospital?"

"I decided it was time for a change," House said. "I'm not as young as I used to be. I like the idea of more regular hours and a job where I don't walk through the door and have to either cure somebody or tell them they're dying."

"Why did you decide to come to San Francisco?" she asked, looking at him through her glasses. "Wouldn't it have been easier to find a teaching job with Princeton, considering you've worked there for so long?"

"Like I said, time for a change," House repeated. "I was stuck in a rut there. I wanted to come somewhere new. San Francisco has everything I need. I'm sure you noticed my cane. I hurt my leg a few years back, and each year, the winter gets worse for it."

Dr. Kummer nodded. She asked a few more questions regarding his experience, teaching style, and management style. House tried to tell her what she wanted to hear without lying. If he announced that he did whatever he wanted no matter what his boss said, he doubted he'd get a call back. After the interview, she thanked him and they shook hands. She said it would be a few days before he heard from HR, but he was a definite candidate.

Therefore, when he and Wilson were watching TV the next day and Wilson's cell phone rang, House assumed it was Rebecca or one of the neighbors. "House," he said, his hand over the speaker. "It's for you. It's UCSF."

"Already?" House asked, reaching out as Wilson handed him the phone. "You think I got it?"

"I don't know."

"Dr. James Wilson," House said formally. The HR person took an annoyingly long time introducing himself and asking how House was and other stupidity. Just as House was about to ask him to get to the point, he offered House the job. He was getting a moderate pay cut, but it was enough to pay the bills and pave the way for Wilson Jr. to succeed in life if he chose that route, so House accepted without arguing. They arranged where he had to be and when, and House hung up.

"You got it?" Wilson asked, as though he hadn't been able to tell from House's half of the conversation.

"Yeah," House sighed, and Wilson broke into a smile and hugged him.

"That's great," he said into House's shoulder. "I'm really proud of you, House."

"I should have known it was in the bag when she mentioned she knew your friend," House said. "Just goes to show it's not what you know, it's who you know. Who do I know again?"

"His name was Dr. Fisch," Wilson reminded him, letting go. "He had the office down the hall from us for seven years."

"Oh, right."

"Well, I think we should celebrate," Wilson said, getting up from the sofa. "I'll go to the store and get us a bottle of champagne and stuff for a nice dinner. Maybe we could even invite Rebecca and Scott."

"Or," House suggested, grabbing Wilson's hand before he could get away and giving him a suggestive look. "We could have a celebration with just the two of us."

Wilson smiled and sat back down. He let House kiss him, but kept it from getting deep. He pulled back after a moment. "Later, okay?" he said. "Tonight. We'll have a nice dinner, just us, and some champagne, maybe rent a movie, and we'll make an evening out of it. But I need to get to the grocery store if I want to make us dinner."

House nodded and let him go, trying to hide his disappointment. The kiss and its suggestion made him realize that they hadn't had sex in almost a week. It had been less and less frequent since they moved in. While in the beginning, they'd initiated it equally, now it was usually House who got things started. Since Wilson had almost passed out at the summer fest, he'd had two more of those episodes, and had been going to bed earlier. House hated to wake him after he was sleeping, especially if he wasn't feeling well, and usually just took care of himself in the bathroom instead. He hadn't wanted to think the thought because of what it meant, but now he wondered if this increased tiredness and lowered sex drive was a sign that Wilson's cancer was getting worse. They'd left Princeton near the end of May and it was now well into September. Wilson could well be looking at the last few weeks of his life.

After a delicious herb-encrusted salmon that Wilson had only nibbled at and a bottle of bubbly, House and Wilson sat on their sofa watching some movie Wilson had picked out on Demand. They weren't cuddling, but were sitting close with House's arm behind Wilson's back. House had tried to get into the movie, but he wasn't really paying attention. His mind was too focused on Wilson and the cancer. How much was it growing? What was it affecting? Had it spread to other parts of his body? How much pain was Wilson in? Was he telling House everything? How much longer did he have?

That was the scariest one.

Would House just wake up one day to a cold body beside him? Or would there be a few days where Wilson wouldn't be able to get out of bed, forcing House to sit with him and hold his hand and dread what was coming?

And what would happen after Wilson died? House had his own fake identity planned, but what about Wilson's? He couldn't use House's name, and he didn't have any ID but his own. If House showed up with a body but no ID to go with it, the police would be called. Back when Wilson had been doing chemo, House had joked that he'd had a plan to dump Wilson's body if something went wrong, but he couldn't really just get rid of Wilson. He should probably try and find someone to forge documents. He'd been skeptical of that plan before because the only people he knew who could do that were on the east coast, and if he went with someone new, he didn't know how good they would be. It was too dangerous to try and live with a fake ID and would be used as a last resort only. But if he only needed to use it once, a name for the death certificate, he could take that chance. His new job was at a college—there would be plenty of kids crawling around with fake IDs. He'd start there.

Caught up in his thoughts, it took House some time to realize that Wilson had fallen asleep on his shoulder. So much for their sexy plans for the night. Carrying Wilson to the bedroom was out. House tried to get up without waking him, but the back of the couch wasn't enough of a support for Wilson's head, and he woke up before House had even made it off the couch.

"House?" he said.

"Yeah. You okay?"

Wilson nodded, rubbing his face. "How long was I asleep? What time is it?"

"A little after nine. I didn't want to wake you, I was just gonna get the laptop."

Wilson nodded again, then yawned. "Sorry," he said. "I...I think I'll go to bed now. Do...uh...you want to come with?" He looked shy for some reason, unsure. House wondered if he was only suggesting it because House had earlier and he felt bad going back on his promise.

House shook his head. "We don't have to. Not if you're feeling tired."

"We haven't in a while," Wilson pointed out. "We can if you want. I'm not that sick yet. I'll be okay."

House studied him. Of course he wanted to; he always wanted to. But he didn't want to force Wilson, nor did he want him to exert himself. On the other hand, House wanted to be as close to him as possible for as long as possible. What if this was their last chance to make love and House passed it up?

"All right," House said, taking his cane and using it to heave himself up. "But if you need to stop, you tell me?"

"I will," Wilson promised, and House knew he was lying. He reached a hand down for Wilson to take, and they didn't let go until they got to the bedroom.

They kissed for a long time. It was slow and almost hesitant, like two virgins who knew what they were supposed to do but not quite how it went. It was a long while of foreplay before clothes even came off. When they did, House took a long moment staring down at Wilson, trying to hide the surprise from his face. What had once been a fleshed-out torso now held the shadows of ribs. Wilson's love handles were gone, as was the bit of belly he'd had. He wasn't decrepit, he didn't look starving, but it still came as a shock to see so much lost weight so fast. House had taken a good look at him naked only a week ago, and while he might have dropped a few pounds then from the time they'd left Princeton, it hadn't been this drastic.

"House," Wilson said, putting a finger under House's chin and tilting him forward so their eyes met.

"You haven't been eating," House accused.

"That's not true," Wilson said. "I've been eating less, and I haven't been as hungry."

"Have you been getting sick at all?" House demanded.

Wilson looked away.

"Answer me."

"Only a couple of times," Wilson said defensively, looking back at him. "And I'm not going to pretend I'm surprised by it."

"You've got to tell me this stuff, Wilson."

"I didn't think it was necessary to worry you."

"But I should be worried," House said. "You're dying."

"Exactly. That's going to happen whether you know about all my symptoms or not. Now let's do this, okay? While I still can."

Before House could answer, Wilson leaned forward and kissed him, with more passion than he had all night. House knew it was partly to distract him, but he took it because he knew Wilson was right. He undressed the rest of the way and let Wilson roll them over to take the top. It took longer than it usually did, for both of them. Wilson had the excuse of having cancer; for House, every time he ran his hands over Wilson's body, the diminished contours reminded him just how sick his lover was.

He tried to redirect his thinking to force himself to make the most of this moment. He kissed Wilson's thin body, he slid his hands down to massage the area that could still gain volume. With a lot of help, Wilson eventually became ready to move their efforts from foreplay to lovemaking. House considered not going all the way, using hands or mouth to stimulate Wilson's external organs only, but Wilson found lubricant from their nightstand, slicked House up, and guided him in.

They were lying facing each other, Wilson on his back and House on top of him. House had considered suggesting he enter Wilson from behind because it might be more comfortable for them, but he was selfish and wanted to look his best friend in the eye, especially if this might be their last time together.

"I'm not hurting you?" House whispered, sliding his fingers though Wilson's hair.

"No," Wilson whispered back, maintaining eye contact and returning the gesture. He kissed him again, and his free hand reached for House's.

Just as it had taken them a long time to reach arousal, it also took time to climax. Wilson lost his erection a couple times and both times House asked if he wanted to stop, but Wilson insisted they continue. Eventually, House came first—after so long, he couldn't help it, couldn't wait any longer. When that happened, he went down on Wilson instead, and put fingers inside him to stimulate him to climax. It took some more time, but Wilson finally came. The fingers massaging House's scalp ceased, and Wilson's breathing slowed and quieted. House kissed him once more before lifting his head and bringing it to rest on Wilson's chest. He felt about to fall asleep himself, but couldn't. He pulled the blanket up to warm them, not having enough energy to get up and get dressed, and listened to Wilson's heartbeat. It wasn't as strong as it should be, especially after this exertion. He wrapped his arms around Wilson and held him tightly. He closed his eyes, hoping this might prevent tears from escaping, and let the beat of his best friend's heart lull him to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **After this, just 1 more chapter and an epilogue. I'll post both at the same time.

**Chapter 12**

If Wilson's symptoms continued to worsen, they did so slowly. He still wouldn't eat as much, even with House's prodding, claiming he wasn't hungry. He sometimes had spells of lightheadedness, sometimes vomited, and slept for longer periods, but he got up every morning, sometimes cooked, and often visited with neighbors or Rebecca. She'd noticed and commented on Wilson's weight loss, but since his clothes hid how thin he was really getting, she saw it as an intentional accomplishment and congratulated him, joking that he was transferring all his weight to her. Although she wasn't ready for maternity clothes quite yet, her jeans had stopped fitting and she'd switched to sweatpants and skirts.

House and Wilson had dinner or went on an outing with her and sometimes her family at least once a week, sometimes twice, and she would update them on how she was feeling and if she'd had any doctors' appointments that week. She had another ultrasound, which they went to, though it was still too early to determine the fetus's sex.

In the meantime, House started work. He was replacing someone who'd left unexpectedly, and it was almost the start of the semester, so the curriculum for his classes had already been written. Fortunately, after his orientation and first department meetings, he could do a lot of work from home. He only had two classes, and each came with a fourth-year student that would grade papers for him. If he'd been the type of guy who freaked out over stuff like that, he might have been uncomfortable with only having a few weeks to prepare for class, but he didn't have a problem jumping right into it. Once classes started, he had to work more hours on campus, not just for class but for meetings as well. House hated being away from Wilson, but he liked his work more than he wanted to admit. Some of his students were idiots, but others were sharp and caught on quickly. All were first-year medical students with a variety of backgrounds, and each was a mind that wasn't fully developed, that he could mold and shape to his will. The only thing he didn't like about his job, other than the absence of Wilson, was the fact that he couldn't just fire anyone who said something stupid like he'd been able to do back at Princeton. None of his colleagues or students got suspicious when he told them he preferred to be called "House" rather than "James" or "Dr. Wilson." They, like his neighbors, completely believed him when he said it was just a nickname that stuck. And soon after classes started, House hung around one of the main campus's dorms one evening and paid some freshman a 50 to give him the name of someone who could get him a fake ID. The next weekend, he had one made to use for the record of Wilson's death. He just hoped it would be a long time before he needed to use it.

One day after a morning class, House was pleased to discover that his afternoon meeting had been cancelled, meaning he could go straight home for the day rather than have to hang around his office. He decided not to call Wilson and tell him he was coming home early, but surprise him instead. When he got back to the house, however, House was surprised to find that Wilson wasn't home. The layout was such that you could see the entire kitchen and living room when you walked in the front door, but the TV was off and the room was deserted.

"Wilson?" House said, walking farther inside and looking around. He checked the bathroom and the backyard, but didn't see Wilson anywhere. They still had just the one car between them, which House had used to get to and from work, so he couldn't have gone anywhere unless he walked or someone picked him up. It was possible that he was visiting with a neighbor or that Rebecca had collected him, and he just hadn't left a note because he had expected to be home before House was. And House couldn't call him now that he'd left his office because he'd cancelled his cell phone service when he'd "died," and he and Wilson hadn't invested in a landline for this place. He told himself he was being stupid for worrying, but knew that that wasn't necessarily true. Wilson had been getting sick more and more often lately, and what if something happened while he was out with someone? Hopefully he would be back soon. He was probably just trying to pass the time in his day in company since House was away. He probably did this often while House was at work.

House tried to put Wilson's absence out of his mind—it really shouldn't be cause for concern. After a sweep of the living room and office told him he'd left his iPad in the bedroom, House went down the hall to collect it. He'd spend the afternoon playing games while he waited for Wilson to return.

House opened the door to their master suite, trying to remember if he'd left his iPad on the nightstand or the dresser, and stopped short. The room was dark, the blinds drawn, and a figure was lying in the bed.

"Wilson!" House said, hurrying over. He wasn't...but Wilson stirred and opened his eyes as House approached, and House let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. He was just sleeping.

"House?" Wilson said, sitting up. "Is it that late already? What time is it?"

"My afternoon meeting got cancelled, I thought I'd come home early," House explained, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking Wilson over.

Wilson yawned. "Oh," he said, reaching for his phone. "I thought I'd slept through my alarm..."

"What's the matter?" House asked. "You slept ten hours last night, were you feeling faint again?"

Wilson shook his head. "I was just tired. I thought I'd take a nap."

House was quiet for a moment. Then he concluded, "This isn't the first time you've done that."

Wilson shook his head again. "A lot of times when you're at work, I'll get a few extra hours of sleep in. So I'll have more energy to be up when you get back."

"How many hours a day are you sleeping, Wilson?"

"I don't know," Wilson evaded. "Maybe 14. Maybe more." When House shook his head, Wilson sighed. "Look, House, I know cancer isn't your specialty, but even you know that this normal. When it gets to the end—"

"—You're not at the end!" House interrupted, glaring at Wilson as though he'd uttered the most reprehensible insult imaginable.

"I'm getting close!" Wilson countered. His eyes began to fill with tears and House immediately regretted yelling at him. He apologized by scooting closer to Wilson and putting his arms around him. Wilson let himself be held. "I don't always tell you about it because I know it upsets you. But I feel like crap, House. I wake up every day and I just...don't want to...anymore. I don't want to get out of bed, I don't want to cook, I don't want to eat, I don't want to watch TV or read or go for walks or talk to people. I just...want it to be over."

House didn't know what to say. He knew the feeling. He'd felt the same way after his infarction, after the procedure to remove the muscle left him in the pain he experienced every moment. But that was different. He was able to recover from that. It had disabled him, not killed him. Wilson...whether he held out for just the day, for a week, or even for another month, would never bounce back from this. House did the only thing he could do: he held Wilson in his arms, he kissed him gently, and he told him that the pain would be over soon, knowing full well that once Wilson's pain ended, his would only begin.

After their talk, House stopped commenting on Wilson's symptoms. He was unsurprised if he came home to find Wilson napping, either in bed or on the sofa, though the first thing he did when this happened was check to make sure he was breathing. When Rebecca called to try and arrange a visit, House took the calls and told her Wilson wasn't feeling well. He stopped making dinner for both of them and instead made himself a real meal and encouraged Wilson to nibble on toast. He shared his Vicodin even though he was running low, and called out of work when Wilson became unable to get out of bed one day. He brought him chicken soup he didn't eat, dug up the bedpan they'd brought with them for emergencies, and chided himself for not thinking to bring the heart monitor that Wilson had stolen from PPTH back when he'd tried the chemo. He tried not to leave Wilson's side because he spent most of the time sleeping, and House kept having nightmares of returning from the bathroom or kitchen to find that Wilson had stopped breathing while he was gone.

After the second consecutive day of this, House was running out of things to distract himself with while he lay by Wilson's side. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate on anything except listening to Wilson's breaths, half-expecting each one to be his last.

"House?" a weak voice called from far away.

House opened his eyes. He'd been dozing, not meaning to, but wakened fully in a moment. The windows were dark, it had to be the middle of the night, but he'd left the lamp on the nightstand on, and it illuminated the room enough for him to see. His eyes focused on those of the sick man lying beside him. "What?" House whispered. "What do you need?"

"Water," Wilson murmured.

There was a full cup with a straw on the nightstand. House got out of bed and went around to Wilson's side, kneeling beside the bed. He put another pillow under Wilson's head so he wouldn't choke as he drank, and guided the straw into his mouth. Wilson only drank a sip before stopping.

"House," he said again as House put the cup down.

"What?" House said, finding Wilson's hand and squeezing it. "I'm here. What do you need?"

He stared at Wilson's eyes until they focused on him, and then felt a squeeze back. The words came out slowly, each one sounding thought-out and full of effort. "I need…to tell you something…House…I—"

"—No," House interrupted, shaking his head fervently. Wilson wanted to tell him he loved him, which meant he thought he was dying, which House was not ready for.

"House," Wilson said, his voice stronger this time, and sterner. "Let me say it, House, please."

"I don't need to hear it," House insisted. "I already know it."

"But I _need_ to say it," Wilson explained.

"Good." House forced a smile. "If you can't die until you say it, and I won't let you say it, then you won't die."

Wilson gave a weak smile back. He reached his free hand up to trace the side of House's face, then ran his fingers through his hair. "I love you, Greg," he murmured. "I always have."

"Back at you," House whispered. He leaned closer and gave Wilson's lips a gentle kiss.

"Good," Wilson said quietly when House pulled back. "Then I need you to do something for me."

"I'll raise your baby, Wilson," House said. He knew there would be time to change his mind later, for selfish reasons or for responsible reasons, but right now he meant it. "I'll be a good father to it for you, okay? I won't screw it up."

"Good," Wilson said again. "But that's…not what I meant. I need you to do something else for me."

"What?" House asked, this time unsure what Wilson was referring to.

"In…in the closet…on the top shelf, there's the toiletry bag I used when we were traveling. The side pocket has a case with a…syringe—"

"—No!" House interrupted again. "No, don't even _think_ about asking me to do that, Wilson. I'm holding onto you for as long as I can, I'm not letting you go a second sooner than I have to."

"House," Wilson moaned, the hand not holding his reaching for his collar, like he had when he'd been sick with chemo. "House, please. You, more than anyone, know what it's like to be in this much pain. I can't stand it anymore, House. My time is up. I need to end it."

"Not now," House said. "You can last another day or two, I know you can."

"But I don't want to. It's too much, House. Please. You said you loved me. If you really love me, do this for me."

"I love myself more," House said, "And myself can't kill you."

"Yes, you can," Wilson insisted, staring into House's eyes. "You can do it. Be strong for me."

"No, _you_ be strong," House argued. "You can make it through tonight. You can make it through tomorrow."

"If the roles were reversed, you'd be begging for the same thing I am."

"And you'd be just as stubborn in not giving it to me."

Wilson smiled. His hand left House's collar, once again going to his face. House closed his eyes as the fingers floated over his lips. He understood now, what Stacy had been going through when she'd had his leg muscle removed rather than wait out the pain like he'd wanted. It probably would have killed him, and she'd loved him too much to take that risk. He'd known the reason all along, but never really understood it until now. It wasn't a situation you could understand unless you'd been in it yourself.

"You'll be okay," Wilson promised. House shook his head, but Wilson ignored him and continued. "I won't really be gone."

"Heaven isn't real," House said.

"But you'll be thinking of me, and I'll live on that way. Talk to me. It helps, House, it really does."

"You won't be able to hear me."

"It's not for me, it's for you. Tell me what's going on in your life. If you don't want to talk, write. Write me letters or postcards or keep a journal. It will help, House, I promise it will."

"I'll be able to talk to you in person if you hang on another day."

Wilson gave a sad smile. "You love me," he murmured.

House nodded. "You know I do."

"Then do what's best for me. Let me go, free me from this pain. Do for me what you wouldn't hesitate to do for yourself. Do what you know, deep down, is the right thing."

They stared at each other for a second. Without taking his eyes off Wilson's, House slowly got up. He waited until the last possible moment before turning around, and then limped as slowly as possible to the closet. He found the black bag, and in the side pocket was a little pouch. House's fingers shook as he unzipped the pouch. Inside was a rubber band, a syringe, and a small bottle labeled _potassium chloride_. House looked back at Wilson, who nodded at him. "Please," he whispered.

House went back over to the bed and sat down on the edge. He took Wilson's arm in his hand, whispered, "Flex," and tied the rubber band around his upper arm. Then he turned his attention to the drug and the needle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson watch him fill the syringe with the solution. When it was full, he tapped it and pressed the plunger so a drop of liquid spilled over the top—not that it mattered. He turned back to Wilson and felt in his elbow for a vein, then locked eyes with him. House let go and lowered the arm holding the syringe. "Wilson…"

"House." Wilson interrupted. His tone was stern. There was pain in his eyes, but not a trace of doubt. "You can do it. If you love me, do this for me."

House forced his eyes away from Wilson's. He concentrated on keeping his hand from shaking as he located the vein again. "Little pinch," he whispered. He stuck the needle in, drew a drop of blood to make sure he was really in a vein, then shut his eyes and pressed on the plunger before he chickened out. The drug went in and House pulled the syringe away from his arm, casting it aside. "No," he said, untying the rubber band and staring at Wilson. "No."

Wilson put a hand on House's and smiled. "Thank you," he whispered.

"No," House said again. "No, you can't."

"It's okay," Wilson promised. "I'm going to be okay now."

"I just killed you!" House protested.

Wilson put a hand to the side of House's face, and House clutched it and turned into it, kissing the palm and using the fingers to hide his eyes, which he didn't want Wilson to see were beginning to leak.

"I love you," Wilson murmured.

"I love you," House choked back.

Wilson used the tips of his fingers to just ruffle House's hair. "Raise my child, House." He closed his eyes and his hands went limp in House's.

"Wilson?" House whispered.

There was no answer.

"Wilson?" House said, again, louder. "No! Wilson!" He let go of Wilson's hands, which fell, then quickly grabbed one of them again. He put his fingers on the wrist and felt for a pulse he knew wouldn't be there. When he felt nothing, he put the hand instead on Wilson's chest, which was just as still. "Wilson." The word was a lament this time, accompanied by tears House wasn't even ashamed to admit. He bent over Wilson to rest his head on his chest, and then suddenly jerked away and got up off the bed as though shocked. That wasn't Wilson! It was a dead body, a group of dying cells with no consciousness. It wasn't Wilson! Wilson was gone, gone forever. He didn't exist anymore and never would again. And it was House's fault! House killed him!

House backed away from the bed until he reached the wall, which he stood against while he stared with wide eyes at the remains of what had once been his best friend in the world but was now nothing more than a corpse.

What the hell was wrong with him? What the _hell_ had he been thinking?! If House hadn't complied with Wilson's request, if he hadn't gone to the closet to get the drugs, Wilson would still be here! He could have been here for the rest of the night, maybe even tomorrow, maybe even a whole other week! Wilson had stopped existing and it was all House's fault. He should have argued with Wilson or just refused him. He should have forced him to hold on for as long as he could and...and saved the potassium chloride for himself.

House looked at the empty syringe on the floor. The case had only contained one dose, but there were other ways. House deserved it, didn't he? He was a killer.

Wilson wouldn't want him to.

But Wilson wasn't here anymore and never would be again.

A fresh wave of tears came, though House barely noticed them. He stared at the body, on the bed, which still looked like Wilson but wasn't Wilson. He didn't have to touch it. Wilson had closed his eyes himself before his heart stopped, so House didn't have to.

He couldn't just leave it there though. Or could he? There was no point in getting rid of it if he was going to die, too. How to do it? Take a bath with the toaster? Too cliché. Slit his wrists? Painful, and didn't always work. Hang himself? No rope. Shoot himself? No gun.

Wilson had chosen the easiest and cleanest way. House should have only given him half of the solution and saved the other half for himself. That would have been the smart thing to do; why hadn't he? Wilson wouldn't have been strong enough to stop him.

But Wilson would have known, and Wilson wouldn't have been happy. Wilson wanted House to raise his baby.

The baby. House had forgotten about the baby. It wasn't even a baby yet, it was a fetus and it was only a 16-week fetus.

Wilson had wanted House to take care of it, raise it into a person.

Wilson had no idea what he wanted—he'd been dying. What a request to make of someone! Someone you know is terrible with kids, doesn't like them and has never wanted them! It was a stupid idea and had been from the start. House couldn't raise Wilson's kid. Wilson didn't exist anymore, he died thinking House would raise the kid, so it didn't matter that he wouldn't.

It had been his dying wish. It had been his final request.

So what? It meant nothing now that Wilson was gone.

Wilson was gone. What was House supposed to do now that Wilson was gone?

House was a doctor. He knew what to do when someone died.

House made a wide circle around the bed to the nightstand on his side, where Wilson's cell phone was charging. He picked it up and gave it a glance. "Time of death: 4:10," he said to no one. Then he called 911.

While he waited, he picked up and disposed of the syringe and the empty bottle that had been with it. He acted on autopilot, letting the logical side of his brain take over while he let the emotional one try and recover, if it ever would, from the shock and distress of losing the love of his life.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** All right, maybe I should have put the deathfic warning, but first of all I wanted there to be suspense earlier when we didn't know what Wilson was planning, and also once we found out what his secret was, we learned that he wasn't treating his cancer, which was meant as a hint that yes, he was going to die. I'm sorry if it was a big shock to anyone, it wasn't supposed to be. But I felt like giving him a miracle cure would deviate too much from how the actual show ended, and I didn't have the proper setup for it. I hope you're here to read the ending anyway, and I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it.

**Chapter 13**

They'd taken Wilson's body away to be cremated. They'd made up a death certificate using the name from the fake ID House had had made. He signed any papers he needed to sign as Wilson. The house, car, bank accounts, and bills were in his name and solely his name. He somehow managed to call his work and request bereavement leave. Rebecca called once, but he didn't answer. He would ignore her for now, Wilson and the lack of Wilson was the most important thing.

The days were a blur. House would wake up, remember Wilson was gone, and then bury his face in his pillow to hide from that horrible truth. He slept a lot, ate little, and spoke to no one. He considered suicide often. It might be possible to steal potassium chloride from work once he went back, but that wasn't the only way to do it. And if he was going to, he probably ought to sooner rather than later, right?

Usually he was sitting or lying down when he thought of it, and didn't have the energy to get up. Maybe tomorrow. If he was still feeling this lost tomorrow, maybe he would do it then. Or maybe he was too much of a coward.

One day the crematorium called, asking him when he was going to pick up the remains since there had been no funeral. Why did they want to give the remains to him? What was he supposed to do with them?

But it cost money for the funeral home to store them, so House had to make a trip down and get them. He didn't want to keep them. It wasn't Wilson—Wilson was gone—it was just a combusted version of a dead body. Still, he didn't want to just throw them away. And he wasn't going to waste money on a plot.

On the drive home from the crematorium, House passed by a public beach, and on impulse pulled into the crowded parking lot. He took the thankfully empty handicapped spot, and with the ashes in one hand and his cane in the other, made his way down the path to the water.

The beach was busy—autumn had set in, but early fall was actually the warmest time of year in this area. Children in wet, sandy bathing suits ran around without paying attention to where they were going. Young women in tiny bikinis lay out on towels or lounge chairs, sleeping or reading. Parents applied sunscreen and handed water and snacks to their children.

House was only vaguely aware of these people, and they hardly noticed him. He felt a warm breeze as he walked down—good, that would make this easier. He stepped around a pair of twins building a sand castle much too close to the shore, and approached the lapping waves. It was noisy with the squawks of seagulls and squeals of children, but the crashing waves were loud, too, and more calming.

Wilson liked people. He wouldn't have minded this place. Not that he would actually be experiencing it in any way.

House opened up the bag of dust that had been his best friend for over twenty years and slowly tipped it toward the water. He let the breeze carry some of it farther out, and the constantly moving waves churned it up as well. He thought about saying something, but what was there to say? To who? It was one thing to talk at a funeral to provide comfort to the deceased's loved ones, but House had only himself. It wasn't like Wilson would hear him. He'd said his goodbye while Wilson was alive, he'd told him how he felt. Wilson died knowing he was loved, and House would die, today or in twenty years, knowing that Wilson loved him.

House's bereavement would be up the next day, and he had to decide whether to go back to work. Wilson had been right when he'd pointed out it would probably be good for House to be working. Maybe teaching young adults to be doctors would take his mind off things. If he was going to kill himself, it would be silly to go back to work...but he hadn't done so yet. Should he?

He was putting it off because it was still surreal to him. Even after almost a week of Wilson not being there, it was like he was living in a long and lonely dream in which Wilson didn't exist and House just went through the motions of his day. It felt like nothing mattered. This was just a dream. Actions didn't have consequences. Or the consequences were so insignificant that there was no point in doing or not doing anything. Maybe work would wake him up. Did he want to be woken up? Real life wouldn't have Wilson in it either. It was one thing to dream without Wilson, but House didn't think he'd be able to live without him. Maybe he would kill himself then. Once the truth hit him and everyone's life but Wilson's went on.

Just as House got home from scattering Wilson's ashes, he got another phone call. It was Rebecca again. He'd ignored her last call, but this time he answered without thinking about it, stopping midstride in his walk from the driveway to the front door.

"Hello?"

"James?" Rebecca's voice said.

"It's House." His voice was hoarse—he hadn't used it much over the last few days. He cleared his throat.

"Oh," Rebecca said. "Hello, House, how are you?"

House tried to think of a better answer than fine, especially considering that he was almost the furthest from fine he'd ever been, but his brain hadn't been working very well lately. "I'm fine," he muttered, not asking the question in return.

"Good," she said. "Is James feeling any better? I was hoping we might be able to get together this weekend."

"He's not better," House said, his voice still sounding rough and guttural. "He...he's dead."

There was a moment of silence on the other line before Rebecca's voice came through again, full of disbelief and shock. "What? What did you say?"

"Wilson's dead," House repeated, louder this time.

"What?" Rebecca said again. "What do you mean? When? What happened? Oh my god, I can't believe it. House..."

"He was sick," House said. It felt like the words were coming out of him automatically, like he wasn't in charge of them. "He had cancer. They found it too late to do anything. And now he's dead."

"I just saw him a couple weeks ago," Rebecca said, shock still in her voice. "He really got that sick that fast? When did it happen?"

House had to think back for a moment. "Saturday," he said.

"House, I...I'm so sorry." Her voice was hushed, still filled with disbelief. "Did you have the funeral already? I wish I'd known."

"He didn't have a funeral," House said. "He's not close with his family, everyone he knows is on the other side of the country. It's just me here."

"I'm so sorry, House," she said again.

House nodded, even though she couldn't see him. It meant nothing. It wasn't her fault, and saying it didn't bring Wilson back.

"Are you doing all right?" Rebecca asked when he didn't respond. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," House said. He wasn't sure which of her questions he was answering, or maybe both.

Rebecca paused again, then slowly said. "Okay. I'm so sorry for your loss. We'll see you soon." Then she hung up.

House hung up, too. He wasn't so sure about seeing her soon. If he wasn't going to keep the baby, maybe it would be better for him to just sever contact with her. The sooner she got used to the idea, the more time she would have to make her own plans, either to keep the baby herself or give it up for adoption. Right now she probably thought he was still keeping it, and House knew that was what Wilson had wanted, but...what was House supposed to do with a baby? When Wilson died, he'd thought House would keep it, and that was the important part, wasn't it? House knew nothing about being a father, and he wasn't anywhere near ready. Rebecca already had two kids of her own, she would know what she was doing. Wilson's baby would be much happier in that loving family than it ever would being raised by someone lonely and miserable like House.

A drop of rain alerted House to the fact that he was still standing in his yard. He should probably get inside.

It didn't occur to House until he was settled on the sofa that he should probably eat something, and the thought only crossed his mind because a food commercial came on the TV. He hadn't had anything since his dry-cereal (the milk had gone sour) breakfast at 11:30. It was approaching 7. But did he really need dinner? It wasn't that he wasn't hungry, just that he couldn't imagine any food being good or satisfying enough to be worth the effort of getting up. Even take-out would require him to answer the door. There were chips in the cupboard. If he remembered, he could grab them on his way back from the bathroom or something. He sat and stared at the glowing screen on the wall, no idea what was on, his mind zoning out, thinking about Wilson and babies and Wilson and remembering every now and again that he had to get up for work tomorrow and maybe he shouldn't go, maybe he should die so he wouldn't have to deal with this but that would also require getting up.

A strange ringing noise echoed through the room, taking House out of his trance. It took him a minute to realize that it was the doorbell. He hadn't ordered any food. Who could be at the door? House got up and made his way to the front door. He opened it and blinked, staring at the woman standing before him.

It was Rebecca, and she was holding some sort of food dish.

"What are you doing here?" House said.

"I thought you could use a home-cooked meal," she said apologetically. "And I couldn't bear the thought of you sitting alone in an empty house dealing with this all by yourself. Do you mind if I come in?"

House stepped aside, watching her walk through the door. He realized he hadn't seen her in nearly three weeks, and she was showing more than ever. House mentally calculated—she was at 17 weeks. But it didn't matter. It would be her baby, not his.

Rebecca went into the kitchen and set her dish on the island. She turned to House. "I'm sorry, I can't imagine what you're going through." Without warning, she stepped forward and hugged him warmly. House kept his arms awkwardly at his sides as he always did with unexpected and unwelcome hugs, wondering how long it was going to last. He felt something tap his abdomen, so light he might have imagined it, and looked down. "Oh," Rebecca said, letting go of House and putting a hand on her protruding stomach. She smiled. "I was wondering when you were going to start kicking, little one," she said.

"That was a kick?" House asked. He'd announced pregnancies to surprised mothers, operated on babies, given them life and watched them die, but he'd never felt a baby—fetus—kick before.

"Yup," Rebecca said. "I've been waiting for him to start. I felt Aiden earlier on, in my fifteenth week, I think. Thomas took a little bit longer, I didn't feel him until my eighteenth. I was wondering when this one was going to start." She reached a hand out to take House's and rested it on her belly. He felt it again, a little flutter of a kick. He looked up at Rebecca, who was still smiling. "He recognizes his father."

House let Rebecca go and turned away. "Wilson was his father," he said.

Rebecca stepped to his side and put a hand on his arm. He tried to shake her off, but she held on. "You were both going to be his parents. You can still be a good father."

House opened his mouth to tell Rebecca he didn't want to or didn't know how or wasn't going to for any other reason...but closed it when no words came out. This time he thought for a minute before speaking, and turned to look at Rebecca while he did. "You're still willing to give it up to me?"

"We did sign an agreement," she said. "That was lucky of James to think of it, though I would give him to you anyway."

"But your original agreement was with Wilson," House pointed out. "He was the one you interviewed and did the background check on. I could be a psycho for all you know."

"But you're not," Rebecca said. "James wouldn't leave his baby to someone he didn't think would be a good father."

House decided not to mention that he had a drug problem and had been incarcerated both in a mental hospital and a prison in the last five years. Because what if he wanted to keep the baby?

House's thought process stopped in its tracks and returned to that thought.

What if he wanted to keep the baby?

Keeping the baby hadn't occurred to him since Wilson died, but now...maybe he could keep his promise and raise Wilson's baby. Maybe...even though he wouldn't be perfect...but who was? He was smart and he knew how to be responsible even if he often chose not to. He could read parenting books and figure things out as he went along just like other new parents did. And if he could love the baby...yes...maybe...maybe he could love the baby. It was Wilson's baby. It had half his DNA. Maybe it wouldn't look anything like Wilson and maybe its personality wouldn't be anything like Wilson's...but it was still Wilson's. Wilson was dead, but this little part of him was not.

House put both his hands on Rebecca's stomach without asking permission. He couldn't feel the baby kicking now, but it was in there, growing and developing every second. And it could be his.

Rebecca put her hands on House's and lifted them up. House met her gaze. Without letting go of his hands, she said, "Scott's parents are going to be in town this weekend. We're having a barbecue Saturday afternoon. I'd like you to be there, House."

He looked at her for a long moment. This woman was carrying what could potentially be his child. "Okay," he said.

It wasn't until after Rebecca left and he'd finished eating her food—some sort of beefy, cheesy casserole—that House realized what had changed. He'd woken up. When Wilson's baby had kicked him...it was just lucky timing and Rebecca could be all cutesy and say she felt him kick for the first time because House was there even though the fetus had no way of sensing his presence or knowing he might be the one to raise it...but still...that little tap had woken him up. Wilson was gone and would never come back, but the fetus was still growing. It would be here in four or five months and whether House took it or not, it was half-Wilson and would have its own life to live. And if House took it, he could tell it about its father, about the man and friend he had been.

Maybe he would keep the baby.

House went to work the next day and found he could concentrate. When colleagues expressed their condolences, he heard them and nodded thanks. He dragged himself to Rebecca's over the weekend and didn't hate the time spent in company. When Aiden taught Thomas how to spit watermelon seeds at their parents, House even found that he could smile.

Every now and again, House visited the beach where he'd scattered Wilson's ashes. It shouldn't have any meaning to him because what he'd dropped in the ocean hadn't been Wilson...but somehow, it did. He also saw Rebecca just as regularly as he had before Wilson's passing. He watched her grow and went with to her next ultrasound. The fetus had turned itself so that its sex wasn't visible, but that didn't really matter. It was a healthy size and looked to have the parts it needed.

House still hadn't fully made the decision whether to keep it. It was a lifetime commitment, a responsibility that, when he was honest with himself, he wasn't fully sure he could handle. Even as the months went on, there were days when Wilson's death would strike him at unexpected moments, when he would find himself wanting to cry or die or not get out of bed. There were days when he cursed Wilson for refusing to try and cure the cancer, days when he stopped at the liquor store on the way home from work and drank until it put him to sleep.

But there was also a day when a Web search that was initially for a Blu-ray player led him to buy a crib. Just in case. The arrival of the crib made House realize that he should probably buy a bunch of other just-in-case stuff as well. Wilson had painted the second bedroom a sunny yellow back when they'd first purchased the house, but he hadn't bought any furniture for it. So one Saturday in the middle of a warm winter (it had been around November that House began to appreciate the climate Wilson had chosen, and he hadn't stopped), Rebecca took House to a baby superstore where they bought a changing table, room decorations and toys, and a dresserful of gender-neutral baby clothes. She decorated the room for him while he and Scott put together the crib, changing table, and dresser. Some evenings after work, House would open one of the parenting books Rebecca had given him for Christmas, and he actually learned a thing or two. Maybe not enough to make him a good father, but maybe enough to try.

When the spring semester started, House had a third class added to his schedule, and for these three he'd had even more say in his curriculum. He would never have thought he'd like teaching, but he did. Although nothing compared to the feeling of an epiphany, seeing the turning of gears until they reached a conclusion in others was satisfying in itself, as was the knowledge that he had gotten the gears turning. He felt a sense of pride when a student made a clever connection, both in the student and in himself. He also knew that Wilson would be proud of him. Wilson. He missed Wilson. He was still living his life, going to work every morning, preparing for the possibility of a baby, even seeing people socially, but he never stopped missing Wilson.

House was in the bathroom getting ready for his Wednesday morning class when he got the call. The caller ID showed Scott's cell, and House knew before he picked up what it was about. Today was April 3. Wilson had had Rebecca artificially inseminated on July 1, and her contractions had started two days earlier, on April 1. Punctual and precise, just like its father.

"Hello?" House said, picking up.

"Rebecca's in labor!" Scott's voice was excited.

"Great," House commented, his voice not nearly as excited.

"We just got to the hospital," he continued. "They're checking her in now, I'll let you know how dilated she is."

"Text me," House said. "I have class for the next few hours, and a department meeting after that."

"You're not coming straight here?" Scott said, sounding disappointed.

"You know how many times I've seen women in labor?" House asked, heading into his kitchen and glancing around for something to eat. He changed his mind and decided he'd grab something on the way. "It does kinda get old."

"But this is your baby," Scott argued.

"And he'll still be there this afternoon," House pointed out. He stepped outside and locked his door behind him. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Keep me updated."

"Okay," Scott sighed. "I don't know if it'll be willing to wait for you, though," he warned.

House smiled as he hung up and pocketed his phone. Rebecca's first two labors hadn't been too long, but he wouldn't be disappointed if he missed the delivery. But he would need to decide—and soon—if he was really going to go through with this. He was prepared—he had the room all set up, and a car seat was installed in the Volvo. There were diapers and formula and clothes...but none of that meant he was ready to be a parent.

It was hard to focus on his classes. Scott texted him every time Rebecca gained a centimeter, when the doctors broke her water, and when she got the epidural. During his department meeting, his mind wandered even more than usual. The moment of truth was approaching. He could go to the hospital and become a father, put someone else's needs before his own for the rest of his life...or he could bail and leave Scott and Rebecca to raise the bundle of joy on their own. Both options were frightening and came with lifelong consequences. If he took the baby now, he could still give it up for adoption if he decided the responsibility was too much...but he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to do that. If he became attached to it, he would want to keep it for selfish reasons even if he knew he wouldn't be a good father. If House thought the baby would be better off being raised by someone else, the best thing would be to decide that now, not later.

On the other hand, the best thing would have been to decide it months ago, so Scott and Rebecca would be prepared and make their own decision whether to keep it or give it up. And House hadn't decided months ago. He didn't even mention his doubts to them because he thought that if they worried he wasn't ready, they would refuse to hand over the child even if he decided yes. House had signed a contract stating that he would obtain sole custody of the child in the event of Wilson's death, and Scott and Rebecca had assumed that meant that there were no doubts, that House wanted this baby as much as Wilson had, and that Wilson's passing had not changed that.

House was almost surprised when his car took him to Berkeley and the hospital where Rebecca was having her baby rather than his house. He'd been just as zoned out driving as he had at work. But he parked in one of the many handicapped spots near the maternity ward entrance, went inside, and had a nurse direct him to Rebecca's room.

"House," Rebecca smiled at him as he entered. She was lying in the hospital bed, looking sweaty and exhausted but happy. Scott was in a chair next to bed. "I'm so glad you're here. Are you ready to meet her?"

"Her?" House asked.

"Didn't you get my last text?" Scott said.

House pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen showed a message from Scott from just over an hour ago: "IT'S A GIRL! 8LBS, 6OZ, 20 INCHES. GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!" He put the phone away. "I was in a meeting, I must not have heard it vibrate," he muttered. "She's a girl. Is she in the nursery? Where's the nursery?"

"Come on," Scott said, getting up. "I'll show you." He kissed Rebecca and followed House into the hallway. He took him down the hall to the nursery, where they met with a nurse, and Scott introduced House and explained who he was. "This is her father," Scott said. "My wife was the surrogate for him and his late partner."

The nurse smiled understandingly. "Come on in," she said, entering the security code and opening the door. She pointed to one of the beds with a pink bundle in it. "She's right there. She's had her shots and her bath and everything looks great. Oh, and you'll see the little postcard by her bed—a lot of new parents like to write down their thoughts and feelings the first time they see the baby and have it as a keepsake. You can fill out her name, too, whenever you're ready."

"Thanks," House muttered. Scott waited outside and the nurse remained by the door as House stepped slowly into the room.

He was really doing this. He was really here. And there...just there...another couple of steps took him to the bed with the baby...what could be his baby...in it. He stared down and caught his breath. She was in a diaper and pink blanket with dark brown eyes and a smattering of brown hair. She blinked up at him, awake but not crying. She looked just like any other newborn except...she wasn't. He leaned his cane against the side of the bed and his hands shook as he reached down. He didn't pick her up right away. He touched her, first, making sure she was real. She grasped his finger with a tight first. He lifted his hand and she held on. She was so strong. So...the word beautiful crossed his mind. He knew it didn't make sense, neonates barely looked like people, they weren't beautiful, but this one...she was Wilson's. Part of Wilson was inside her and always would be. He'd loved Wilson so much and spent Rebecca's pregnancy wondering...would it be possible to take that love and transfer it to this infant? She had been made from Wilson, but that didn't make her Wilson. She couldn't replace Wilson. But why in the world would she need to? On her own merit...she was the reason House was born, she was the reason the earth turned and the sun rose. His entire life had been leading up to this moment. Every moment of pain and loneliness that he'd suffered before Wilson's death and since had all been for her and he would do it again a thousand times if he had to because this was his daughter. She was Wilson's and his and would be forever and he would never let her go and would only stop loving her when he stopped loving Wilson. Until it stopped beating, his heart would beat for Wilson...and for her.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The lock clicked, and the two young women stepped into the house.

"Come on in," the taller one said, closing the door behind them and leading her friend down the hallway. "You can stay in the guest room," she said. "It might be the first time anyone's used it since...ever."

The other girl laughed and followed her into a small room featuring a full-size bed. She set down her purple and black NYU duffel bag before letting herself fall face first into bed. "Ahh!" she said, her voice muffled by the bedding. "I'm so glad it's summer! That was the hardest semester ever!" She looked up when her friend giggled.

Brushing aside a lock of bronze hair that had escaped the long braid down her back, she teased, "It's just gonna get harder from here on out, you know that, right? We're only halfway done, and then there's MCATs, then med school, then—"

The girl on the bed put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. "I don't want to hear it, Jamie. I know!" Then she opened her eyes and smiled. "For the next three months, all I want to think about is boys and tanning, okay?"

Jamie rolled her eyes, smiling. "Okay. Now get up, we should probably throw those sheets in the wash before you have to sleep on them."

"Yeah, a lot of dust did come up when I fell on the bed..." She got up, dusted off her bare knees, and shook out her curly blonde hair.

"You look fine, Lil. Come on, help me strip the bed." They gathered the sheets and comforter, and Lil followed Jamie to the laundry room. After a moment of neither girl speaking, Jamie commented, "It feels weird." She looked around as she started the washer, as though expecting someone else to enter the room or call out for her. "Being back here without him."

"Are you okay?" Lil asked, taking a step closer and looking at her friend with concern.

"Yeah," Jamie said, nodding. "I'm fine. He was...I mean, he wasn't old old, mid-70s, but old for the parent of a college student. He was already in his 50s when I was born. And he'd had health problems."

Lil shook her head. "I was so surprised when you came back to school right away. You know everyone would have understood if you'd taken the rest of the semester off, right?"

"I know," Jamie said, her voice getting a bit defensive. "But he would have wanted me to finish, and besides, it was the best thing for me. Having all you guys there, having school."

"I guess," Lil conceded.

They were both quiet for a moment, then Jamie shrugged and said, "I guess we should get started. Come on, I'll show you his room."

The girls went back down the hall, and Jamie took Lil into the master bedroom. She spread her long, slender arms out and shrugged. "What first? Dresser or closet?"

"Closet," Lil said definitively. "The best stuff is always in either the closet or the underwear drawer, and I have no desire to go through your dad's underwear."

Jamie laughed. "Closet it is." She opened the closet door where her dad's shirts hung and grabbed all of them at once. She laid them all in a heap on the bed—she would take care of them later.

"Donation pile?" Lil asked.

Jamie laughed again. "If anyone wants them. I think they're probably older than us. I think most of my dad's clothes are."

"What else is in there?"

"Let's see," Jamie said. She went back to the closet, knelt down, and handed her friend several pairs of expensive running shoes.

Lil inspected them. "Um...didn't you say your dad walked with a cane?"

"Long story," Jamie said, and Lil silently placed the shoes next to the bed while Jamie looked in the back. "Now this I'm definitely keeping," she said, pulling out a bright red electric guitar.

"Sweet," Lil said, impressed.

"He used to play for me all the time when I was little," Jamie smiled, her eyes glazing over for a moment with the nostalgia. Then she shook her head to clear it, her long braid swinging, and set the guitar tenderly on the bed next to the shirts.

"Anything else in there?" Lil asked.

"Just a few shoeboxes." At 5'11", Jamie easily reached the high shelf piled with shoeboxes. She grabbed two at a time, held the first one out for Lil, and the girls sat down on the free side of the bed.

Lil opened her box first. "Pictures!" she smiled, pulling out a stack. She flipped through them quickly. "You at the beach, you at Christmas, you with people I don't know...who's this?" she asked, holding up a small photograph. It featured two middle-aged men on a sofa in someone's cluttered living room. They were sitting next to each other and both were smiling in the general direction of the camera, but not at it. They looked natural, not posing, and possibly unaware they were being photographed.

Jamie smiled and took the picture from Lil. "That's my father," she said.

"I thought this one was your father," Lil said, pointing to the older of the two, who was dressed more casually and had a shadow of stubble on his face. "Who's the other guy?"

"No, I mean...that one's my dad. This one..." she pointed to the younger man, "This is my father. My biological father."

"Your dad's not your biological father?" Lil asked. "I mean, I know your mom was a surrogate, you told me, but I thought your dad used artificial insemination. I didn't know your biological father was someone else also."

"He died before I was born," Jamie said, holding the picture in both hands now and staring at it. "They were lovers, my dad and him, but my dad...my dad got into trouble and had to leave the city they'd been leaving in. He had no one out here, and his only friend was dying. My father was worried my dad might commit suicide after he died and he wanted to leave a piece of himself behind…so he decided to have me." She gave her friend a small smile. "He didn't tell my dad about the pregnancy until after it was confirmed, and since my dad was on the run from the law…he took my father's name. The name listed on my birth certificate as my father is James Wilson, but that's not my dad's real name. His real name is Gregory House."

"Wow," Lil said, her eyes getting wide. "I never knew all that."

"Uh-huh. My dad made me swear not to tell anyone. And when I started looking at colleges, he said I could go anywhere but Princeton. The chance was slim, but there was a chance that someone might recognize him when he took me out there to move in."

"That's crazy," Lil said, shaking her head. "So was he like…a criminal?"

Jamie laughed. "More of a prankster. Though he did do some jail time before I was born. He crashed a car into his ex-girlfriend's house."

"I thought you just said he was gay."

Jamie shook her head. "Another long story. Now let's see what's in this box."

Lil put the box of pictures aside and watched as Jamie lifted the lid on the second shoebox. It was full of postcards, all in unorganized stacks filling up the box.

"Ohh…" Jamie said, comprehension dawning on her face. She lifted one out and turned it over in her hands.

"What?"

"I always wondered about these," Jamie said. She adjusted the box on her lap so the corners didn't press into her legs, and then turned to Lil. "Whenever we'd go anywhere, the boardwalk, the zoo, what have you—and we travelled a lot—my dad would buy a postcard. Sometimes even just when we went to the grocery store or gas station, he'd pick up a postcard. When I was old enough to start noticing, I asked him who they were for. And he said they were for my father. I remember telling him, 'I thought my father was dead.' Dad said, 'He is,' and never elaborated further."

She glanced at the one she'd picked up and laughed. The picture was of the New York City skyline, and on the other side she recognized, in her own handwriting, her home address and the message, "I know you got one when you dropped me off, but here's another. I love you! —Jamie." Underneath that was her dad's handwriting:

_10-18-31_

_Wilson,_

_She's grown up now. Now it's just me here. It's hard…you know…without her. She calls a ton, though, and she loves school. She's so smart, Wilson, you have no idea. She's already decided she wants to be an oncologist. I told you that already. When she was nine, "So that other girls' fathers don't have to die before they're born." Now she's 18, and still set on that. I wish you could see her, Wilson. You'd be so proud of her._

There were tears in Jamie's eyes when she finished. She tried to wipe them away before Lil could see, but her best friend noticed everything.

"You okay?" Lil said gently, putting a hand on Jamie's arm. "Do you want a moment?"

Jamie sniffed and smiled. "I'm fine." She put the postcard back and closed the box. "I'll go through it later." She got off the bed and went back to the closet.

Jamie and Lil spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening going through her dad's things. They filled a few plastic bags of clothes to donate and joked about whether to save his Vicodin for a party.

It was late when they finally decided to go to bed, and Jamie used the shower in the master suite so Lil could have her bathroom. Before going back to her bedroom, Jamie took another look around her dad's room. The bed was clear of clothes, but still had the guitar, a fireproof safe of important files, and the shoeboxes of photos and postcards. She glanced at the door as though afraid someone would catch her—though her dad had left her everything in his will and she was completely entitled to look through his things. She climbed onto the bed and grabbed the box with the postcards. She sat cross-legged, leaning against the headboard, and opened the box once again. She straightened the postcards and picked up the first one.

They were in no particular order, but each was dated. Jamie considered organizing them by date first so she could read them in order, but her curiosity got the best of her and she found herself reading at random.

A postcard from the zoo dated when she was five:

_She's her father's daughter, Wilson. After three hours of walking around and staring at animals, I told her it was time to go and she wasn't ready. She put her little hands on her little hips and said, "No!" She looked just like you, Wilson. Except…three feet tall with long hair in a pink dress._

One with the Golden Gate Bridge when she was three:

_Your daughter has a big mouth, Wilson. Okay, so maybe I should have waited until she was a little older to tell her about sex. She asked. What was I supposed to do, lie to her? I guess her preschool teacher thought that's what I was supposed to do. My bad._

The San Francisco Bay when she was eight:

_She asked about you today, Wilson. She asked what kind of cancer you had and I explained it. Her friend's mom has breast cancer, apparently. When she asked if yours was curable, I told her it was treatable but you didn't go through with it. She asked why, and I said "Because he was an idiot." She looked shocked and said, "I thought you loved my father." I told her I did, but that didn't make you less of an idiot. She was still upset, so I had to explain to her that sometimes people we love do things we don't agree with and it doesn't mean we love them any less. It calmed her down a little bit, but she told me it still wasn't nice to call them idiots. No promises. Love you._

There was a postcard from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where they'd made a trip when Jamie was fifteen:

_Remember when we were here, Wilson? I'll never forget that night. Our first time. I miss you._

_Jamie had a blast. The tour guide was really impressed with her knowledge of music trivia, I think she probably knew more than he did. She's got such better taste in music than her friends, and she's going on her sixth year of guitar and her tenth of piano. She's good, Wilson. I asked her if she wants to be a musician, but she says she's sticking with oncologist. She's got the brains for it, and you know she inherited your bedside manner, too. Her collection of gifts from patients will be even bigger than yours. And she'll pick better movies for the posters on her walls._

Another from Disneyland, where they'd made a weeklong trip when she was twelve:

_Our daughter thinks she has a boyfriend. There's this kid about her age down the hall from us. They met at the pool our first day here and have been hanging out every day. What happened? Who gave her permission to grow up? I thought I'd at least get to wait until the awkward preteen phase was over before she started bringing home boys. I guess she inherited her father's charm with the opposite sex. Hopefully not his inability to keep his hands off them._

_I still love you._

Jamie laughed as she set the postcard aside. Even though she and the boy had promised to remain in contact after their vacation, they never had. And she'd remembered her dad's comments about her father's promiscuity and warnings not to follow in his footsteps. She'd understood for a long time that his dislike of her father's actions was fueled more by jealousy and hurt than actual disapproval. It hadn't stopped her from learning to take relationships seriously.

One by one, Jamie went through every postcard in the box, organizing them by year and date and putting her favorites in a special pile. Having read them all and in the process of sorting them, Jamie was surprised to hear a noise in the hall. She looked up and saw Lil standing in the doorway in her PJs.

"Everything okay?" Jamie asked.

Lil nodded and stepped into the room. "I got up the go the bathroom and saw a light on. What are you still doing up?"

Jamie scooted over on the bed to make room for Lil to sit next to her. "I just wanted to go through some of these," she explained. "I didn't realize I'd spend all night on it…"

"They're all cards your dad wrote to your father after he died? They must be so personal."

"Some are," Jamie agreed. "Mostly he talks about me, but sometimes he'll make a comment and…I just feel the pain he must have felt losing my father. It makes me so sad that I never had a chance to know him, never had a chance to see them together."

"It sounds like your dad talked about him a lot."

"Yeah, he did," Jamie smiled. "Sometimes he'd tell me, 'You're just like your father,' and even if it was when he was mad at me about something, I always took it as a compliment."

Lil nodded. "Sometimes my dad tells me I'm just like my mother when he's yelling at me. Usually it's not for stuff that's that bad, though."

"Yeah," Jamie said. She glanced at her pile of cards again, then looked up at Lil. "You want to read one?"

"Sure," Lil said. "If it's not too private."

Jamie handed her friend a postcard. "I think this one's my favorite. Take a look."

Jamie watched her friend's eyes scan the words, and met them when she finished. "Wow," Lil said after reading it. She gave the card back to Jamie.

"I cried the first time I read it."

"It's so sad but…" Lil shook her head. "Your dad must have really loved him, huh?"

"Yeah," Jamie said. She sat back. "It's funny."

"What?"

"Well..." Jamie explained, looking at Lil. "My dad was a total atheist. He didn't believe in God, he didn't believe in heaven or hell. He believed in science and taught me to believe the same."

"Okay…" Lil said.

Jamie smiled. "But my father did…sort of believe. When he was dying, he told my dad that he thought more was out there. And even…even being raised by my atheist dad, even learning all about science in school…I think I believe, too."

"Really?" Lil asked.

"Yeah," Jamie nodded. "I don't know for sure, there's no way to, but…" She glanced at the ceiling and smiled. "I think my dad's up there somewhere, and I think my father's with him. I want to believe it. Dad never dated, no matter how much I suggested it might be good for him. He would tell me I was the only person still living that he could truly love. I want to believe that they're together again and watching me. That's…the way it should be."

Lil smiled. "Maybe you're right," she said. Then she yawned. "Well, I'm going back to bed," she said, getting up and stretching. "You should, too, we've got a busy day tomorrow."

Jamie nodded. "You're right. I will." She didn't get up, but watched Lil go, and then picked up her favorite postcard again, tracing the ink of her dad's handwriting.

The glossy back was pink, with a cartoon baby and the words "It's a girl!" She turned it over and saw, where the name and address would be, "Jamie Wilson. 8 pounds, 6 ounces; 20 inches. 3:14 p.m., April 3, 2013." Jamie smiled. She figured her dad must have been given this card at the hospital when she was born. She turned her attention to the left side of the card, though the words spilled over to the right, and read once again:

_She's here, Wilson. It's a girl. You have a daughter. I have a daughter. I was so stupid, Wilson. I can't believe I thought about not keeping her. I know why I did it, I don't know anything about kids or being a father. She deserves so much better. But I can't help it, Wilson. I have to take her._

_You were right. You're always right. It must have been her that's kept me hanging on all this time. Losing you…well, you know what it's like to lose someone you love that way. I was lost, but…everything's different now. I have a daughter. I have something _(he'd crossed that out) _someone to live for._

_I didn't think it'd be enough. I didn't realize. Your stupid _(he'd crossed that out, too) _idea worked. Before today, if you'd asked me if I could ever love anyone as much as you, I'd say no effing way. But now…who knew, Wilson? You must've. I sure as hell didn't. I promised you I'd raise your child, and even though before today I seriously considered breaking that promise a million times over, our daughter gave me no other choice but to keep it. I also said I'd be a good father to her. I can only try as far as that one goes, but I think loving her as much as I loved you is a pretty good start._

"You did good, Dad," Jamie whispered. She kissed the card and put it down, and then got up to go to bed.

**A/N:** Thanks so much for taking the time to read. Don't forget to review, whether you loved the ending or hated it. :-)


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